"What's the matter?" she asked.
He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded forehead. She stroked it once more:
"I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said.
He looked up at her.
"He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement, sometimes, upon various political questions."
This opinion of his father's surprised him.
"And about what did you promise to talk to me?"
"About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile. "About your marriage, Othomar."
"My marriage?..."
"Yes, my boy.... You will soon be twenty-two. Papa married much later in life, but he had many brothers. They are dead. Uncle Xaverius is in his monastery. And we—papa and I—are not ever likely to have any more children, Othomar."