un?' said she, leading with an easy canter, face
averted. She put on fresh speed; I was outstripped.

Had she quitted me in anger? Had she parted from me out of view of the
villa windows to make it possible for us to meet accidentally again
in the shadow of her old protecting Warhead, as we named him from his
appearance, gaunt Schwartz?

CHAPTER XXIX. AN EVENING WITH DR. JULIUS VON KARSTEG

In my perplexity, I thought of the Professor's saying: 'A most fortunate
or a most unfortunate young man.' These words began to strike me as
having a prophetic depth that I had not fathomed. I felt myself fast
becoming bound in every limb, every branch of my soul. Ottilia met me
smiling. She moved free as air. She could pursue her studies, and argue
and discuss and quote, keep unclouded eyes, and laugh and play, and be
her whole living self, unfettered, as if the pressure of my hand implied
nothing. Perhaps for that reason I had her pardon. 'My friend, not
that!' Her imperishably delicious English rang me awake, and lulled
me asleep. Was it not too securely friendly? Or was it not her natural
voice to the best beloved, bidding him respect her, that we might meet
with the sanction of her trained discretion? The Professor would invite
me to his room after the 'sleep well' of the ladies, and I sat with
him much like his pipe-bowl, which burned bright a moment at one sturdy
puff, but generally gave out smoke in fantastical wreaths. He told me
frankly he had a poor idea of my erudition. My fancifulness he commended
as something to be turned to use in writing stories. 'Give me time, and
I'll do better things,' I groaned. He rarely spoke of the princess;
with grave affection always when he did. He was evidently observing me
comprehensively. The result was beyond my guessing.

One night he asked me what my scheme of life was.

On the point of improvizing one of an impressive character, I stopped
and confessed: 'I have so many that I may say I have none.' Expecting
reproof, I begged him not to think the worse of me for that.

'Quite otherwise,' said he. 'I have never cared to read deliberately in
the book you open to me, my good young man.'

'The book, Herr Professor?'

'Collect your wits. We will call it Shakespeare's book; or Gothe's, in
the minor issues. No, not minor, but a narrower volume. You were about
to give me the answer of a hypocrite. Was it not so?'

I admitted it, feeling that it was easily to have been perceived.