Several weeks passed and George was still "sent to Coventry by the regiment," as he called it. He still had not a single friend with whom he had any close relations. His hope that Willberg, whom he had helped out of his difficulty, would get on more friendly terms with him, was not fulfilled. On the contrary, the latter had less to do with him than usual, although he had not yet paid his debt. George did not trouble about this. He had already had many disagreeable experiences in these matters in his old regiment; but as he himself had grown up in quite different circumstances, he did not really grasp the attitude of the "Golden Butterflies" with regard to money. They had no hesitation, even in the presence of the orderlies, in borrowing from each other. Very often, indeed, they made no scruples about saying to their servants: "Spend this or that amount on my behalf," but the money was not always returned to the orderly the same day. They got credit wherever they could, and borrowed from all possible sources. In the chief restaurant, where they often passed the evenings rather than stay at home in barracks, many of the officers owed the waiter fifty or sixty marks actually in cash, besides what they owed for food and drinks. And it was just those who owed the waiter most, who lived most extravagantly, ate the dearest food and drank the most expensive wine, and when they went off it was always, "Muller, put down twenty marks to my account, you know you'll get it all right." But the question was, when? Some of the officers had owed this money for months, and they never thought of paying back; so long as they wore a uniform, surely the money was safe enough. George noticed with astonishment that the officers in Berlin were just as lax in these matters as they had been in his former regiment. Once in the little garrison town, in a restaurant much frequented by the military, there was a row with the landlord; the officers boycotted the place and swore that the fellow shouldn't get another penny from them. But not a single one of them thought of paying his debts, part of which were due to the landlord, part to the waiter. It was only when the landlord complained to the colonel that he obtained redress, but even then it was in a curious manner. The colonel did not order his officers to pay their debts within twenty-four hours, but he gave them six weeks in which to discharge their liabilities. And so the landlord and the waiter, who really needed their money, had to wait patiently all that time.

George remembered another incident that had taken place only a few weeks ago. One morning a senior lieutenant had appeared at lunch much excited, and said that the hairdresser to whom they all went had written and dunned him on account of a miserable debt of a few pounds, and had threatened him with a summons through the post, as he was in great difficulties and wanted his money at once. The officer openly admitted that he had had the hairdresser's bill several times, but had never paid him a penny. But, in spite of this, there was a storm of indignation at the hairdresser's daring to write to him. Why should the fellow want his money in such a hurry? Couldn't he wait? The few pounds were quite safe, and nobody ever sends a man of position a summons through the post. The end of the story was that the "Golden Butterflies" were forbidden to patronise the hairdresser's shop, but, in spite of this, the officers who owed money there did not discharge their debt.

Certainly in all matters connected with money they had few scruples and lax views. Debts were only considered as such when they consisted of actual money; they never reckoned in what was owing to a tradesman. The fellow was there, of course, to give credit; he had to wait two or three years, sometimes much longer, before getting his money. He ought to be delighted if the officers came into his shop, and ought to be willing to pay something for the honour of having such customers, and getting a good advertisement. They got credit everywhere, and once it happened that a lieutenant owed his own servant twenty marks. The incident was revealed when the recruits were dismissed. The colonel when discharging the recruits said: "Has any one of you any claims on the regiment? if so, let him make it now." Then a young recruit stepped forward and said in a loud voice: "I am still owed twenty marks by my former lieutenant, which he borrowed from me a few months ago when I had some money from home." The matter was investigated, and found to be quite correct; the fellow was paid his money and the lieutenant received a severe rebuke. But everyone thought it was an unheard-of thing for a discharged soldier to bring a complaint against his former lieutenant. Nobody, however, asked if the man were in a position to bear the loss of twenty marks.

George remained completely isolated among his companions. Nobody troubled in the least about him. His astonishment therefore was all the greater when one day after lunch his adjutant sat down beside him, and engaged him in a long and very friendly conversation. He could not quite account for this mark of distinction, but he quickly understood when Count Wettborn suddenly said to him: "I have for a long time meant to ask you why your father does not try to get a title. The thing is certainly not easy, but your father is well thought of by His Majesty, and it would be easy to overcome the difficulty if your father would be disposed to give a couple of hundred thousand marks for some charitable object. Your father could certainly do that—why doesn't he?"

"Because my father is proud of his own name, which he has made an honourable one."

The count rubbed his feet with some embarrassment, then he said: "Of course, your father is quite right as far as he himself is concerned, but he ought to think of you. You would take quite a different position in Society if you were a baron or a count. The world lays great stress on this, and in my opinion it is quite right. For you, especially, now that you belong to a distinguished regiment, a title would be of the greatest value."

The count talked to George for a long time, and the latter saw clearly that the adjutant in saying all he did was not following a sudden impulse, but was acting on mature reflection, and had evidently consulted the wish of the colonel or one or other of the military authorities. George felt the blood mount to his cheeks. He felt ashamed that his companion had the audacity to talk to him in this way. Good heavens! was a title then, which could be bought for a few hundred thousands, really of much more importance to these aristocratic lieutenants, who were ciphers when they got out of their uniforms, than a good, old, simple middle-class name which was honoured and respected by the whole commercial world?

He could not help saying in reply to the adjutant: "My father has often enough been offered a peerage, but every time he has refused it."

"I cannot understand such a thing." The count stuck his eyeglass in more firmly and looked at George with speechless astonishment. "I really cannot understand it," he repeated, and George saw that he spoke in bitter earnest. He really could not understand how a man could refuse a title, simply because he was proud of his own plain name.

For a long while the adjutant sat silent, then he finished the conversation with the remark: "Well, perhaps you will write to your father again about this matter, or, better still, perhaps you will talk to him. You may be able to change his mind."

George did not answer, but he knew how his father always laughed at the people who directly they had made money had no other ambition in life but to get a title. He felt that the words which the adjutant had just addressed to him were almost an insult, and yet when he considered them quietly, he could not altogether take umbrage at them. He saw every day of his life how the aristocracy had the preference in everything; how even in these enlightened days a title possessed many advantages, and that it was given to men of wealth as a distinction and an honour. And even in the army was not a title of advantage to a man? If three officers, one of whom had a title, went in for a post, was not the aristocrat always chosen, and if by the rarest chance a middle-class man was ever successful in such a case, was he not at once ennobled? The position of an officer is only suited for a man with a title. The old adage was very suitable for present days—the plebeian in the army who did not distinguish himself in some extremely remarkable manner would never get promotion as soon as the most ordinary commonplace titled officer.

And was it any different in Society? George had now been to quite enough social entertainments to know how everyone bowed down to a title; how even the youngest aristocratic lieutenant was considered superior to a staff-officer of plebeian birth. And how often had he not noticed how people hummed and hawed at the sight of him, and could not understand how it was he belonged to such a distinguished regiment. Although the words had been softly spoken he had once heard a young girl at a ball whisper to a friend: "If Lieutenant Winkler asks me to dance, I shall say my programme is full; I shall certainly not dance with a middle-class officer."

All the women regarded him as an outsider. A bare nod was their only greeting, even the one or two who shook hands with him did this without breaking off their conversation, and with an expression which showed they thought they were doing him a great favour. But he was just as much isolated in the army as in Society; his comrades chattered and laughed with the ladies, had all kinds of little intrigues with them, made engagements with them, while he wandered about alone and bored. He was an "outsider," and nobody troubled to introduce him.

The only person who was always pleasant to him was Hildegarde. They had often come across one another, and a sincere friendship had sprung up between them. The two "outcasts" Hildegarde called himself and her to her relatives. George was never introduced, and she herself occupied a curious position in Society. She was no longer quite a young girl, and interest in her charms had vanished. People invited her out, it is true, but that was largely because they could not do anything else, but privately they always hoped she would not accept the invitation. When she did go to parties, contemptuous remarks were made behind her back. Hildegarde acted as if she were quite unconscious of them, but she understood the glances that were directed towards her, and even when she did not actually hear the words, she knew very well how the people shook their heads over her and whispered to each other. It was a great effort of self-control to go to these entertainments, and after every party she said to herself: "To-day is the very last time I will go; to-morrow I shall go home."

But the terrible anxiety which always reigned in her home kept her at her aunt's. "I would rather endure these secret remarks than see the poverty and misery at home, and bear their reproaches." At intervals she confessed to herself that she stayed on George's account; not that she could say she was exactly in love with him. The question of marriage had been so much and so often talked about, that love seemed a ridiculous thing, and it all depended on whether the man had money or not. The holiest of feelings had been so unreservedly discussed in her presence that she believed that her heart was no longer accessible to love. In George she saw a reliable friend. He was always very attentive to her; as soon as he saw her by herself he came to her side, and she felt his glance continually on her. His glance seemed to say: "I do not know, of course, what anxiety is troubling you, but I know that you are feeling sad and lonely here, just as I am, and I want, therefore, to do what I can for you."

This evening she was to meet him again. There was a great reception at the American ambassador's, and she was delighted at the prospect of seeing him. She had dressed herself specially well for his benefit, and had put on a new costume which her aunt had just given her. In pleasant anticipation of the entertainment she had begun to dress sooner than usual, and now a quarter of an hour before it was time to go she was standing in front of the looking-glass and regarding herself smilingly. She was pleased with her own beauty, and knew that to-day, at any rate, she would once again arouse admiration.

She was standing deep in thought when a knock at the door aroused her. "Is it time yet? I am quite ready. I'll come at once."

"Madam has plenty of time. The carriage is not yet at the door, but there is an express message for you."

Hildegarde was alarmed. An express letter for her! Whatever could have happened?

She opened the door and took the letter from the girl, and she shuddered involuntarily when she recognised her brother's handwriting.

"Oh, dear!" She threw the letter on the table with annoyance. Without opening she knew perfectly well that it contained a request for money. A feeling of repugnance came over her. "Why should he spoil my pleasure just at this moment? How can I possibly ask my aunt for anything when she has just given me this costly dress?" All her pleasure had vanished. "Well," she said to herself at last, "the letter shall not spoil my temper to-day. I shall read it to-morrow, or this evening, when I get back again."

An inward feeling of anxiety, however, caused her to tear open the envelope, and she read:

Every drop of blood vanished from Hildegarde's face as she read the letter. She stood motionless, and a feeling of repugnance came over her, as it often did when she had news from home. She tore the letter into a thousand pieces and stamped them under foot.

Then she sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. "They ought to be ashamed of writing to me in this way," she moaned. "Just imagine their regarding me as a chattel that is to be sold to the highest bidder. What is it that Fritz writes?—'He must expect to pay something if he marries into our distinguished family.' Distinguished family!" and she laughed bitterly. "Bankrupts, gamblers, men with whom nobody would have anything to do if it were not that they owned noble names and wore uniforms. A man has only to wear an officer's uniform and belong to an aristocratic family, and, of course, he is a man of honour."

She roused herself from her meditations when her aunt came in to inquire whether she was dressed, and when she saw Hildegarde's face she clasped her hands in horror.

"But, Hildegarde, whatever is the matter? What has happened?"

Hildegarde shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. "What has happened! You can see by these pieces on the floor. Fritz has been gambling again, he needs four thousand marks. I am to ask you for it." Then suddenly she burst forth with passionate indignation: "Aunt, how could you tell them at home that my engagement with Lieutenant Winkler was about to take place? You ought not to have done such a thing; the consequences have been serious. On the strength of their prospective son-in-law and brother-in-law, both my father and Fritz have contracted all kinds of debts. And I do not really know if Lieutenant Winkler even loves me. I scarcely think so, but if he should get to love me and want to marry me, then I know what I shall do: I shall open his eyes to everything. When he asks for my hand I shall tell him how I have been sent for years to Berlin in order to get a rich husband; how my relatives reckon on his money, and what they think of his plebeian birth. I shall tell him everything, for even if I do not love Lieutenant Winkler, I honour him and respect him too highly to deceive him. He shall know and understand clearly into what an honourable family he is about to marry. I shall tell him everything!"

"You will do no such thing." Frau von Warnow had listened to Hildegarde, speechless with amazement, and it was quite a long time before she regained her composure. "You will do no such thing," she repeated with anger. "You have not only your duty to your own people, but to us also. I will not remind you of what we have already done for you. It is true we are rich, but, in spite of this, naturally we should not have given you, your parents and your brother, hundreds and hundreds of pounds if we had not taken it for granted that you would have repaid us in some way or other. When you say that you will tell Lieutenant Winkler everything before marriage, you say something that is simply ridiculous. The four thousand marks won't matter in the least to him with all his money, and you may be sure he's clever enough to know that a beautiful girl only marries a middle-class lieutenant for his money. If you tell him everything beforehand you warn him, to a certain extent, against marrying you, and then he can't very well help drawing back. And then, what will you do?"

Hildegarde shrugged her beautiful shoulders. "What shall I do? I don't mind in the least. I shouldn't starve. As I told you before, I should get a situation of some kind or other."

Her aunt laughed contemptuously: "You are out of your mind! What do you know, I say? What can you do? Have you any idea of housekeeping, cooking, domestic work? You certainly couldn't get a post as a companion. You are not a good musician, you don't read aloud well, your knowledge of foreign languages is practically nil. So how could you earn your living?" She spoke with the bitterest irony, but when she saw the look of despair on Hildegarde's face, sympathy got the better of her, and almost tenderly she put her arm round the girl's neck. "Don't be so sad, it will turn out better than you think. I can quite understand that Fritz's letter has terribly upset you, but he doesn't mean it all. I will talk to your uncle to-day about sending the money. He shall send it, or I will. And now, hold your head high. It is high time for us to go."

"Yes, do go, aunt, but let me stay at home. I am really not in the mood to go to a party."

"What? Hildegarde,"—her aunt thought she could not have heard rightly—"you want to stay at home? That would never do. Especially to-day when the court has promised to put in an appearance, you must not fail to be there. And do you imagine that I had this costly new costume made for you to take it off and put it in your wardrobe? Whatever answer should I give when people inquired after you?"

A sorrowful little laugh played round Hildegarde's mouth.

"Nobody will ask after me; they will be delighted not to see me."

"And what about Lieutenant Winkler? What am I to say to him when he makes inquiries after you?"

Hildegarde looked at her aunt with wide-open eyes.

"Do you not really understand that it is precisely on his account that I don't want to go to the reception? It would be simply impossible for me to talk to him naturally and pleasantly after Fritz's letter and our conversation." Suddenly, however, she changed her mind: "No, you are quite right. I will not allow the day, to which I have so greatly looked forward, to be spoiled."

Her aunt embraced her tenderly:

"That is quite right, my child. Come along now, the carriage is at the door."

They drove immediately to the embassy. They were somewhat late, rows and rows of carriages were drawn up before the gates, and it was long before their carriage could drive in. Herr and Frau von Warnow conversed about the occupants of the other carriages, which were close by them, exchanged remarks concerning the elegance of their various acquaintances, and passed the time in wondering which of the royalties would put in an appearance to-day. Hildegarde sat silent in her corner. In answer to her uncle she had pleaded a headache, and Frau von Warnow had given her husband a sign not to pursue the matter. So she could remain undisturbed in her thoughts. What had really made her change her mind and go to the reception? A sudden desire had sprung up in her to meet George, to see and converse with an honourable man. She did not exactly know how she was to do it, but she had made up her mind to stick to her resolution and to say to him: "Pay your court to some one who is worthier of you than I am." Before she would accept any more attentions from him she wanted to tell him about her father and brother. If then he continued to treat her with peculiar chivalry, and to endeavour to win her hand, her conscience would be quite free, and she could look him in the face honestly and straightforwardly.

"Aren't you ever going to get out, Hildegarde?"

Hildegarde got out. She had sat in her corner with closed eyes, and did not notice that the footman had been holding open the door for a long time. She followed the others, and a quarter of an hour later she walked into the enormous reception-rooms in which a brilliant company was assembled. There were endless greetings and hand-shakings, endless inquiries after health and the events of the last few days. Everybody was constantly looking with expectation towards the door, for the court party was momentarily expected. Although no one, of course, would have confessed it, all were consumed with anxiety to see whether His Majesty would notice and talk to them, and distinguish them by shaking hands. Each one hoped that he would enjoy this distinction. Nobody wanted the other to have it, and each hoped, in secret, that he alone would be noticed by the Emperor.

George was standing by Hildegarde's side. She noticed how he had sought her out, though she had hoped to avoid him, but her tall figure prevented him from losing sight of her. She feigned, however, to be astonished when he suddenly said: "How do you do?" to her, but she read in his eyes that he had seen through her little ruse, and without further preamble he said to her: "Are you vexed with me for any reason, baroness?"

She looked at him frankly and honestly. "No, certainly not."

His face lit up. "That's all right, then." After a slight pause he said: "You avoided me. Is it at all disagreeable to you for me to be by your side?"

Again she cast a frank look at him. "Not at all," and then somewhat hesitatingly she added: "Will you be so kind as to take me in to supper this evening?" She really meant to say: "I want to talk to you," but she could not get out the words.

He bowed gratefully. "If we should lose sight of each other in this crowd, baroness, let us meet again at this place, if it is agreeable to you."

She nodded agreement, and stepped back a little, for at this moment the royal party was announced. A mysterious stillness reigned, the stir of voices was hushed; everyone looked at His Majesty, who had come into the room, and smiling graciously, walked down the long row of bowed figures. Here and there he stopped and exchanged a friendly word or handshake, and everybody who enjoyed this distinction was almost annihilated by his neighbours' envious glances.

Suddenly His Majesty stopped in front of George and graciously extended his hand. "Ah, you are here, dear Winkler. How are you? To-day I received a very interesting report from your father. I must have a talk with him as soon as possible, and then you must come with your father and dine with me."

George bent his head to kiss his sovereign's hand, and as he did so, the Emperor noticed Hildegarde, and greeted her with a friendly smile. "Are you still turning the heads of all my lieutenants, baroness?" he asked playfully; "though that is easy enough when one is as beautiful as you are." And with a laughing glance he passed on.

In the stillness that reigned, His Majesty's words had been heard by the whole room, and now all eyes were turned on Hildegarde and George, who were naturally delighted at the honour that had fallen to them, although they were a little embarrassed at the harmless badinage. They stood there silently, and were glad when the people began to talk and walk about again. They did not see each other again till midnight, when supper was announced. As usual, it was set out on small tables, and George was fortunate in finding one at which the guests were unknown to him, and so he could talk undisturbed to Hildegarde. However, they were temporarily the objects of their companions' notice, and some of the ladies spoke freely about the remarks which the Emperor had made about Hildegarde. Indeed one, a haggard, tall woman, examined Hildegarde most impertinently through her lorgnette, and then said half aloud: "Well, I can't understand why His Majesty should think her so good-looking."

Hildegarde threw a perfectly frank glance at the speaker and laughed aloud, then she turned to George and said: "I cannot tell you how delighted I am at the words the Emperor addressed to you. I am firmly convinced you will now at once take your right position both in Society and in the regiment, which before you were unable to do."

George shrugged his shoulders. "I scarcely think so, baroness. I fear these gracious words will have done me more harm than good. People will grudge both me and my father praise from so exalted a quarter. However, I am not going to let that spoil my pleasure in the public recognition of my father. Do me the honour of drinking to his health."

"With the greatest of pleasure," and the glasses clicked.

"I want you to know my father, baroness," George went on: "you would like him, though naturally most of the people here would not. They would never pardon him for not wearing well-starched cuffs, and for not tying his cravat in the proper manner. I think, however, you would like him. Perhaps the next time he comes to Berlin I might introduce him to you? He is bringing my sister with him, and, as I have so often told her about you in my letters, she is most anxious to make your acquaintance."

Hildegarde was somewhat embarrassed at these words. Then he had also told his people about her, perhaps even he had confessed that he meant to win her hand. The remembrance of her brother's letter came back to her. She must tell him all before it was too late. How was she to do it? Nobody was paying any attention to their conversation, but how was she to express what she wanted to say? As he had not told her what his intentions were, she could not very well say to him: "Don't think of wooing; on account of my family I will not and cannot be your wife." And yet if without further explanations she spoke about their poverty at home, might it not occur to him that perhaps she expected help from him or his father. She could find no way out of the difficulty. Then she wondered why he had never spoken to her about his sister. She was much astonished, and at last she said: "Have you a sister, then, Lieutenant Winkler? Why did you never tell me about her?"

He looked at her surprised: "What! did I never tell you about her? You mustn't take that amiss, for I had no intention of not talking about her to you."

"And why should you not talk about her to other people?" she inquired, with some curiosity.

George was embarrassed, and blushed like a child. "I can't exactly explain it. Perhaps it is that when one loves anybody very much one does not speak much about them to anyone. And even if I had wanted to talk about her, to whom should I have talked? In the regiment no one takes the faintest interest in me, far less in my family, and naturally, I don't talk about such matters unless I am asked." Then, after a slight pause, he continued: "And there's another reason why I don't care to talk about Elsa."

"And what is that?" Hildegarde asked, as he was silent.

"I don't know how to express in words exactly what I want to say. I don't want to appear suspicious of my comrades, neither do I wish to represent myself as a model of virtue, which, indeed, I am not, and could not be, at twenty-seven years old. But I can't help saying that at mess my fellow-officers have a way of talking about young girls, whom they meet in Society, which is simply revolting to me. No, not revolting, that's too strong," he corrected himself. "I am simply astounded, and constantly say to myself: 'Haven't these officers sisters, and haven't their mothers taught them any respect and reverence for women; so that they don't treat all alike?' In my old regiment it was quite different; we were not perhaps more moral men, but in the little town where we were brought into such close relationship with the few families, we could not criticise the young girls so freely and so shamelessly. I remember how once at dinner an officer went so far as to make an insulting remark about one of the ladies. The orderlies were sent out of the room, and the oldest officer at the table, an old captain, read the young lieutenant such a lecture before us all, that he never said a single word in excuse."

"That is as it ought to be," said Hildegarde.

"Certainly," George agreed, "that is why I am astonished that our officers don't feel like that. If only the girls, who so often regard a lieutenant as the paragon of perfection, knew, or could hear with their own ears how the officers talk about them after they have been to an entertainment, they would blush with shame, and a lieutenant would soon cease to be their ideal. There are, of course, exceptions, thank God! but most of my fellow-officers are as I have just described, and it is the same in other regiments; to them a woman is just like a horse—a thing to be examined and appraised. How is it, I wonder, that a young girl is of so little account to a lieutenant, that he talks of her without the least respect? I have often thought over the matter. Is it, perhaps due to their education? Most of them grow up in the regiment; they have no home life; they only see their sisters and their friends when on leave; as cadets, they go into Society to make conquests, and each conquest helps to lower all young girls in their eyes. Perhaps the girls themselves are to a certain extent answerable for this state of affairs. In Society there exists no one but a lieutenant for them, they ignore a civilian, unless he happens to be a reserve officer. The lieutenant simply goes about in pursuit of conquest, and often he wins the victory only too easily. I cannot speak of this from my own experience. I am a stranger here, but I have often heard my comrades talk of young girls who push themselves forward, send them love-letters, and who do not even wait until they are asked to give a rendezvous, but ask permission to be allowed to visit the officers, either in a friend's house, or in the officers' quarters."

"But, Lieutenant Winkler," interrupted Hildegarde, "no lady would do such a thing."

"She certainly ought not to do so," he agreed, "but, nevertheless, she does. Just give a glance at the select company here. How many of these aristocratic ladies have not a more or less harmless intrigue with a lieutenant? It is not only the married ladies, I can assure you. Those young girls trip about so modestly and chastely, yet their great pride is that, in spite of their youth, they have had a past."

Hildegarde knew only too well that he was right. She remembered how most of the friends of her youth had had a lieutenant lover. How often had she not spoken to them about this, and reproached them, but all had given the same answer: "Why shouldn't I have a lover? the others have, and what's the use of being young and beautiful? Do you think that our blood remains calm when a man pays court to us the whole evening, presses us closely to him when dancing, and casts longing glances at us? Are we to wait till we have a husband? We may wait a long time, perhaps for ever, and what then? Do you want us to die without having had experience of life? How ridiculous!"

They told one another with truly cynical frankness how they managed to deceive their parents and prevent any consequence of their intrigues. Perhaps Hildegarde was naturally too cold and too lacking in passion to understand her friends. Above all, she could not understand the officers who, more than all others, ought to be regarded as honourable men, and who yet made no scruples of entering into a liaison with the wife or daughter of the house where they enjoyed the pleasantest social relations.

Hildegarde and George sat for a long time occupied with their own thoughts. George misinterpreted Hildegarde's silence. He thought she was perhaps vexed with his remarks, and so he said:

"I hope you are not angry with me for having spoken so freely and frankly in your presence; but we have both of us been brought up among quite different circumstances and educated in quite different views."

Hildegarde felt that she blushed. Grown up among different circumstances indeed! It was entirely her own merit that she did not resemble her companions. Perhaps, however, it was partly due to her father and brother who had constantly written to her: "Don't throw yourself away, and don't enter into a liaison if you are not sure that it will lead to marriage. You will get nothing out of it, and then you lower your value and utterly destroy the hopes we set upon you."

How often had she not wondered whether her brother would have been quite inconsolable if she had written to him: "I have not found a husband but a friend. If you will pardon this, I will pay your debts."

She did not doubt that he would accept the money in order to remain an officer and play the fÊted and envied rÔle in Society of a soldier.

"Are you angry with me?" George asked, as Hildegarde still remained silent.

She roused herself from her thoughts. "Why should I be?" And in order to turn the conversation, which was painful to her, to another subject, she again inquired about his sister. And then George told her all about his sister—how charming and beautiful she was, how kindly and good, how they had grown up together as excellent friends, and how often they had fought each other's battles when they were children. He told his stories gaily, with sparkling eyes, and Hildegarde listened with interest.

"Do you know, I envy you your sister, or rather the pleasant relation in which you stand to her. Sisterly love is such a beautiful thing."

"Yes, certainly; but you are also in that happy situation. You have a brother."

"Please do not speak to me about him."

There was such a tone of contempt and depreciation in her words that he looked at her with astonishment.

"But, baroness, he is your brother."

"You do not know him. Please let us change the subject."

"Certainly, if you wish it."

In his embarrassment George emptied his glass and vainly thought of another topic, and both were glad when at last everybody rose from the table.

The ball went on till the small hours of the morning, and during the dancing George never lost sight of Hildegarde. He had the pleasure of being able to introduce some fresh officers and partners; and he was really more delighted than she was at the admiration she evoked.

It was late when at last the ball broke up. George, at the last moment, was unable to say farewell to Hildegarde, and he walked home with a companion in a somewhat bad humour.

His companion was apparently occupied with some thoughts that interested him. Suddenly he stood still and seized George by the arm. "What will you bet that he wins her? That would be much better than a lucky stroke at cards."

George regarded his comrade with astonishment. "I don't understand what you mean. Whom are you speaking about?"

The other went on walking again. "Oh, yes, of course, you don't know Gastion of the Hussars. My gracious, he has paid court to FrÄulein von Reisinger this evening! Well, she is no longer very young, and she never was pretty, but her family is a very old Jewish one. I believe her mother was a Moses, but that doesn't matter. She has money; a frightful amount of money. If Gastion gets that, he can live in fine style. But he certainly needs it; he is said to be two hundred thousand marks in debt."

George had listened without apparently much interest. Then he said: "Is it not really frightful that we officers—present company, of course, excepted—when we choose a wife, make it a matter of convenience? We live luxuriously, we fling away our money and our health, and when one day we are at the end of our tether, we look out at balls and parties for a rich young girl who will put things right for us again. The more money she has the more, of course, we run after her. How few marry on their pay!"

"Well, of course, that's ridiculous; who can live on a few pence."

"I quite agree with you, though many people manage to do so. But still is it not a very interesting psychological fact that almost every officer falls in love with a girl who is rich and ugly? Yet no one of course ever admits that he has married for money. It is indeed insulting and libellous to suggest such a thing. On the contrary, everyone pretends that in spite of his wife's lack of beauty and more or less unpleasing characteristics, he really loves her. If she had no money he would of course not look at her. To speak quite frankly, I cannot in the least understand how rich parents can give their daughter to an officer. People must know that officers only accept their daughters because of the money, and I cannot imagine how the girls themselves can be so foolish as to suppose they are married for love."

"Excuse me," put in his companion, "you are expressing very curious views. According to you, then, young girls who are rich ought not to marry at all."

"I beg your pardon, I do not say that, but they ought to marry whom they like, only not lieutenants, who, in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of one thousand would not dream of marrying if they were not up to their ears in debt."

"It is all very well for you to talk," said the other. "It is easy you know for a man who is born into the world a millionaire to judge a poor devil severely. What you say is all very beautiful and noble in theory, but what about practice? When I can, I prefer to ride in my own carriage, rather than the electric tram. Ah, here our ways separate, you go to the right, I to the left. What time do you go on duty to-morrow?"

"Not at all in the morning."

"Lucky fellow, I must be on parade at seven. Good-night."

After a cool handshake the comrades separated and a little later George reached his rooms.