She shook her head. "See!" said she, dully, "to spare Felix a humiliation, I would give my life, but now I cannot think of him without anger. Heavens, when I think of his return I tremble! I know he will be very badly received, and as his wife's whole existence turns upon being received----"
Erwin bites his lips. "Felix writes me that his wife plans to return in the latter part of June or the first of July. He will come to Traunberg with his little son somewhat sooner."
"He will return?" murmurs Elsa, slowly.
"Well, he must sooner or later."
"Certainly!" cries Elsa, with a shudder. "Erwin, what will strangers think of his return, if I myself am not able to rejoice?"
"Strangers do not take the situation so tragically," says Erwin, hastily and precipitately, looking away.
"Well, to be sure!" sighs Elsa. "It is of no consequence to strangers whether he has acted without any tact, yes, unresponsibly. To think evil of one who is far from one is a pleasure to malicious people, and to the best is simply indifferent. But to be forced to think evil of one whom one loves is the most painful thing in the world."
For a moment she is silent. "If Felix insists upon coming," she then continues, "I will do my utmost to make life endurable for him and his wife. I cannot persuade him to return."
IX.
About a week after the conversation between Erwin and Elsa, recorded in the last chapter, a bowed man appeared in Steinbach whom at first Elsa did not recognize, but into whose arms she fell with a cry when he stretched out two trembling hands to her with a sad smile. She had forgotten his unsuitable behavior; every bitter word which she had pronounced against him fell heavily on her heart; she no longer felt anything for him but boundless, compassionate love. The sight of him shocked her, his hair had grown gray, his voice hoarse. An anxious habit of raising his shoulders, and pressing his elbows against his ribs, that shy manner of poor tutors and other despised individuals, who seem to strive to make themselves as small as possible, to deprive others of as little room as they can--lent his figure a sickly, narrow-chested look. He spoke a great deal, with forced fluency, often repeating himself. He whom for so long Elsa had at most only heard laugh fondly at Litzi's little wise sayings, now laughed continually, loudly and harshly at the slightest provocation, whereupon the wrinkles grew deeper in his face, the shadows under his eyes darker. Often after such an outburst of nervous hilarity, his face suddenly grew flabby, as if wearied by too great exertion, and for a moment displayed the stony features, the rigid pain of one who has died a hard death.