“But it is of no matter; there are many yellow foxes. Dr. Krumm can shoot them at another time; he is always here. Perhaps you will shoot one before you go.”
With that Franziska passed into the house, carrying her fruit with her. Charlie was left to revolve her words in his mind. Dr. Krumm could shoot foxes when he chose; he was always here. He, Charlie, on the contrary, had to go away in little more than a fortnight. There was no Franziska in England; no pleasant driving through great pine woods in the gathering twilight; no shooting of yellow foxes, to be brought home in triumph and presented to a beautiful and grateful young woman. Charlie walked along the white road and overtook Tita, who had just sat down on a little camp-stool, and got out the materials for taking a water-colour sketch of the Huferschingen Valley. He sat down at her feet on the warm grass.
“I suppose I sha’n’t interrupt your painting by talking to you?” he says.
“Oh dear, no,” is the reply; and then he begins, in a somewhat hesitating way, to ask indirect questions and drop hints and fish for answers, just as if this small creature, who was busy with her sepias and olive greens, did not see through all this transparent cunning.
At last she said to him, frankly:
“You want me to tell you whether Franziska would make a good wife for you. She would make a good wife for any man. But then you seem to think that I should intermeddle and negotiate and become a go-between. How can I do that? My husband is always accusing me of trying to make up matches; and you know that isn’t true.”
“I know it isn’t true,” says the hypocrite; “but you might only this once. I believe all you say about this girl; I can see it for myself; and when shall I ever have such a chance again?”
“But dear me!” says Tita, putting down the white palette for a moment, “how can I believe you are in earnest? You have only known her three days.”
“And that is quite enough,” says Charlie, boldly, “to let you find out all you want to know about a girl if she is of the right sort. If she isn’t you won’t find out in three years. Now look at Franziska; look at the fine, intelligent face and the honest eyes; you can have no doubt about her; and then I have all the guarantee of your long acquaintance with her.”
“Oh,” says Tita, “that is all very well. Franziska is an excellent girl, as I have told you often—frank, kind, well educated, and unselfish. But you cannot have fallen in love with her in three days?”