“You cannot? You shall!”
“I love another!”
“You love another!” angrily exclaimed his father; and then adding, with a sneer—
“Some actress, I presume!”
Franz coloured.
“It is so,” said his father. “Old Clara Kritisch, I shouldn’t wonder!”
A deeper blush overspread Franz’s face, and a look of anger shot from his eyes, as his father contemptuously let fall those words.
Franz loved his wife; but he knew the disparity between them. She was not old to him, for he loved her,—was happy with her; but although to him she was as young as a bride, he knew what others said of her—what others thought of her. For himself he felt that
“Age could not wither, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety;”