"Oh, I knew you were fond of him, and I am so glad!"
This she said in such an artless way--as if Conrad and I were two dolls which she meant to put in one doll's house--that instead of colouring, I actually laughed.
"Oh, but I must tell you, Clara: it's right for you to know; one of the leading principles of political economy--"
"Don't talk to me of that stuff."
"Well, I won't; because I see that you don't understand it. But he actually called him--and his voice came from a depth, like an Artesian well--he called our darling Conny--"
"What?" And in my passion, I flung off her hand, and stood up.
"A low bastard, a renegade hound, a scandal to his country--and then he even said Rimbecco."
She pronounced the last word almost with a scream, as an insult beyond forgiveness. What it meant I did not ask, I had heard enough already.
"I must leave this house. Where is your brother Conrad?"
"Gone, I believe, to inquire for you. Nothing but that composes him. I wish he would never come here. And he was ordered not to. But it is about some business. Oh, he never will come again." And she began to cry at the thought of the very thing she had wished for.