“If you mean anything except insult,” said Otto, frowning, “tell me the truth, and I will pay you.”
Whereupon Adeline told, with slight embellishment. Ursula had answered advertisements, Gerard’s among the number. She had “wanted” a husband. So, of course, she had accepted Otto’s proffered hand.
“A mésalliance is a mistake, after all. There is something in blood,” thought Otto, in the train. He went home quite quietly. But that evening, to Ursula’s wonderment, he dropped, for the first time, his good-night kiss.
That year’s winter opened dully. Otto had let the shooting; it was a sacrifice of which he could not trust himself to speak. No one came to the house in the absence of battues. Gerard wrote home regular letters to his mother, bright letters, but the Baroness, bored to death, was growing somnolent and slow.
Bad accounts of Gerard—mostly false—occasionally reached the Manor-house. People said he was exceedingly wild and devil-may-care. Rumor told, moreover, that he had got himself entangled, on the journey out, with the governess of an English family.
“Thank God, we have the boy,” said Otto.
One evening, late in October, the father came into the nursery, where Ursula was trying to make “Ottochen” balance himself against a chair.
“Ursula,” began the Baron, hurriedly, “where have you been this afternoon?”