"I do not know; I did not go in, it was too late."
"And Fritz? How is the poor fellow?"
"Very ill!"
"Did you give him my message?"
"Yes, he sends you his thanks."
Oswald seemed metamorphosed. Never before had he answered her so curtly; she glanced at him anxiously, he was sitting leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hand like one longing to carry out a terrible resolve.
A distressing silence ensues. He feels as if he were about to ask of a competent authority whether or not there be a God. He cannot bring himself to do it, and then too how shall he shape the fearful question?--how can he utter anything so vile in her presence?--he who all his lifelong would rather have blasphemed in a church than have spoken an evil syllable before his mother!
The minutes pass; tick, tick, goes the antique watch with the silver face on the Countess's writing-table. He clears his throat.
"Mother!" he begins.
She interrupts him. "I feel very ill, Ossi!" she says, rising with difficulty from her arm-chair, "give me your arm, I should like to go to bed."