too
distinctly that it would be long ere the task could be accomplished.
The more violently he strove to accuse her, the more victoriously the
image of his upbraided friend, with her artless expression and the last
earnest gaze the dark eyes had fixed upon him, rose before his fancy,
and he at last perceived that he only reproached her in order to have a
pretext for constantly occupying himself with her. He at last concluded
a sort of truce with his passionate grief. It was still possible that
she might write as soon as she was settled again. Had she not one of
his books, Hafiz, from which he had last read aloud to her at table? To
be sure, she might think he had given it to her, like the little copy
of Hermann and Dorothea. And if not, why should the possession of a
borrowed book disturb her, when she was in the habit of not even
returning hearts into which she had glanced once or twice?

For the first time, he failed to tell Balder all that was occupying his
thoughts, and merely said that she had given up her rooms, but would
probably send him her new address.

This intelligence did not seem to trouble Balder much. He avoided
saying so, but in his heart he almost wished that this might be the end
of the adventure, for from what Edwin had said of the lady, it seemed
more and more doubtful whether this passion, which made the grave,
self-contained man so helpless, would ever compensate for the sacrifice
of his repose. Much as he desired to do so, he could feel no affection
for this singular being. His beau ideal of loveliness was in every
respect the exact opposite of this dazzling vision. But he said
nothing, for he was well aware that words would be spoken in vain.

"A little note from the Frau Professorin Valentin came while you were
away. The zaunkoenig left it in the shop himself."

Edwin absently opened and read it. It contained a request to visit the
writer in the course of the day if possible, as she wished to speak to
him about a very important matter.

He threw down the sheet, took up a volume of some work on physical
science, and began to read. Balder, who was working industriously at
his turning lathe--he had reason to be industrious, since of late,
unnoticed by Edwin, the state of their strong box had become very
critical--saw plainly that he did not turn the page, but did not
venture to rouse him from his reverie. What could he have said to
console him?

Evening came. The Frau Professorin's note see