"I won't allow you to say that," I interposed hastily.
"Yes, it always is a despicable thing to do—to deceive," she continued; "but I did so want to talk to Heinrich, and explain to him how things were. He wrote me a pitiful letter, begging to see me just once, and I was so unhappy that I finally devised that meeting. Now that we have been through all this I feel sure that my parents will have no objections to our marrying. They have always been fond of Heinrich. It was only the thought of my brilliant match that made them ignore, as it were, his very existence."
"Just as soon as she is well enough to travel I am going to take her home," said the Poet's Wife to me. "Heinrich is waiting here in Munich to go down with us. He is doing very well, by the bye, in his law work."
"Yes, indeed," said Fräulein eagerly, "and sometimes next year when—when we are settled—you will come down and visit us—promise you will, meine Amerikanerin!"
I promised, and lingered a few moments longer to learn more of her plans. Then the Poet's Wife insisted that she had had excitement enough for one day, and we both left her leaning back in her chair and, with an expression of unutterable happiness, gazing dreamily out over the swaying tree-tops of the Platz.
At three o'clock I was at Ainmüller-strasse for my last lesson with Herr Professor. Did I tell you that some weeks ago I made a translation into English of the Rosenlied (Rose-song) by Anna Ritter? Thuille has written a three-part song for women's voices to these charming words and asked me if I would put them into English for him. To-day he gave me the first published copy and wrote across the bottom the following inscription: "Meiner lieben Schülerin; zur freundlichen Erinnerung. L. Thuille." (To my dear pupil in friendly remembrance. L. Thuille.)
I had brought as my lesson the overture for orchestra on which I have been spending considerable time lately, and a little song which occurred to me the other day at Tutzing. Nothing pleases Thuille so much as a completed piece of work, so I had worked very hard to finish the overture in time; in fact, even sitting up late at night, which is against all rules. He was pleased with the result and declared the song to be the best thing of its kind that I have done this year, which made me very happy. I did not mind that my eyes were tired.
"Take a good rest, Fräulein," he said. "You must surely come back to us all next year. And here is a souvenir, so that you will not forget your old teacher when you are in far-away America."
The souvenir proved to be a photograph of himself, taken from the large oil painting which hangs in the salon. Beneath it he had written his name with some bars of music from Gugeline.
I thanked him repeatedly as we shook hands. Then I went down stairs with a vague regret in my heart as I realized that the year's work was over.