G. Zu Befehl.
Wirthin. Lass ihn hereinkommen.
G. Ja, Frau Wirthin!
Exit Gretchen.
Wirthin. (Solus.) Ah—jetzt muss ich ihm die Wahrheit offenbaren.
Enter Mr. Stephenson.
Stephenson. Good morning, Mrs. Blumenthal—keep your seat, keep your seat, please. I’m only here for a moment—merely to get your report, you know. (Seating himself.) Don’t want to see the girls—poor things, they’d want to go home with me. I’m afraid I couldn’t have the heart to say no. How’s the German getting along?
Wirthin. N-not very well; I was afraid you would ask me that. You see, they hate it, they don’t take the least interest in it, and there isn’t anything to incite them to an interest, you see. And so they can’t talk at all.
S. M-m. That’s bad. I had an idea that they’d get lonesome, and have to seek society; and then, of course, my plan would work, considering the cast-iron conditions of it.
Wirthin. But it hasn’t so far. I’ve thrown nice company in their way—I’ve done my very best, in every way I could think of—but it’s no use; they won’t go out, and they won’t receive anybody. And a body can’t blame them; they’d be tongue-tied—couldn’t do anything with a German conversation. Now when I started to learn German—such poor German as I know—the case was very different: my intended was a German. I was to live among Germans the rest of my life; and so I had to learn. Why, bless my heart! I nearly lost the man the first time he asked me—I thought he was talking about the measles. They were very prevalent at the time. Told him I didn’t want any in mine. But I found out the mistake, and I was fixed for him next time... Oh, yes, Mr. Stephenson, a sweetheart’s a prime incentive!