“Naughty girl, to cause such havoc in her father’s laboratory!” she cried, gaily.
“The harm done is not very great,” he replied; and he began diligently brushing up the fragments of the vial. It was his way of gaining time, but he did it so awkwardly that she snatched the brush from his hands: “This is the way to sweep,” said she.
He watched her, saying to himself: “This is the reverse of the scene at Churwalden. It is now I who wear a long face, and she cannot dissemble her joy. Just requital of things here below.”
So soon as she had finished her brushing she looked around and remarked: “Well, here you are once more in your paradise—this enchanted spot, where you taste such ineffable delights.”
“Oh, yes, I am happy here—happy enough that is,” he replied, with modesty.
“Fastidious creature! It is altogether charming in your laboratory.”
“Yes, it is suitable. Nevertheless, I often reflect that there is something wanting. Do you know what my dream is? I should like to have over in yonder corner a transparent chapelle. You, perhaps, are unacquainted with a chapelle. It is a framework or basket-funnel above a chimney, for facilitating the release of volatiles and pernicious vapours, and having one side of glass. It enables the chemist to watch the process taking place within. German chemists have nearly always transparent chapelles in their laboratories.”
“How can any one accuse you of lack of imagination?” she exclaimed. “You are a very romantic man, and your romance is a transparent chapelle. Now I know why you are so indulgent to the romances of others.”
Then carelessly drawing the brush in her hand over an arm-chair, she seated herself in it, placed another seat facing her, and said: “Come, sit down here near me on this stool; I will put a cushion on it to make you more comfortable. Come, I must talk with you.”
He drew near, seated himself, and put his ear towards her. “Must I take off my apron?” he asked.