"Where was he when he—when he died?"
"At the Schloss—in my dressing-room."
"You were there?"
"My dress was wet with his blood."
Over Friedrich there rushed man's protective feeling, the desire to shield a woman from pain; his own yearning of not so many months ago, to fend this one fragile creature from the world. He drew nearer to her, and she leaned back in her chair and looked up at him out of the shadow.
"I could not bear to live at the Schloss any longer—there were horrible memories, and I was alone; I told you my aunt had died. You know she was my only relative."
Von Rittenheim knew. It was at her aunt's house in Heidelberg that he had met Hilda.
"Then Maximilian had told me that we could not live in the Schloss if you did not supply the money to carry it on. After he died I could not feel myself indebted for that to you when I had treated you so badly."
She hung her head. Von Rittenheim made a gesture of polite dissent, and walked again to the window.
"You always had enough money, I hope?"