Hedvig had, on Laura’s recommendation, appointed the lawyer Levy to look after her personal estate, including her shares in Selambshof. And Peter did not at all like the insolent supervision of the Jew.
Hedvig shook her head.
“I am anxious about Percy,” she mumbled. It sounded as if this confession had been forced out of her by a thumbscrew.
“Really, how—how is your lord and master, anyhow?”
On Peter’s face there appeared a well-meaning grin of sympathy. He summoned up all that was left of his former sentimentality, but it did not reach beyond his expression. His eyes penetrated swiftly into her very soul with a cold, familiar, insolently searching glance. “Aha, my dear,” they seemed to say, “this business did not turn out so well as you thought.” Hedvig, of course, stood in silent, dignified protest against his every low thought. But all the same she enjoyed his glance—something that groped blindly and stealthily in her vitals.
“Percy is very bad,” she exclaimed in a kind of exaltation, “much worse than he thinks himself. And he has quite lost his balance. He does nothing but buy picture after picture, mad things that unscrupulous people palm off on him. He is positively throwing away all he has! It is such a dreadful shame!”
Peter was playing with his pencil. He had never heard Hedvig say so much at once before.
“You mean that Percy ought to be under restraint,” he interrupted calmly. “I am afraid that would be rather difficult.”
“I shall have remorse all my life if I do nothing to help and protect him.”
Peter wanted to damp what he thought was unbusiness-like vehemence.