Anna? Somebody would marry her, for certain, and the Penheim
would lose her place; then why should it not be Karlchen?

The princess, however, most innocent of excellent women, had never
spoken privately to Anna of Karlchen except once, when she inquired
whether he were to have the best sheets on his bed, or the second best
sheets; and Anna had replied, "The worst."

But if Frau von Treumann was uneasy about Anna, Anna was still more
uneasy about Frau von Treumann. Whenever she could, she went away into
the forest and tried to think things out. She objected very much to the
feeling that life seemed somehow to be thickening round her--yet, after
Karlchen's visit there it was. Each day there were fewer and fewer quiet
pauses in the trivial bustle of existence; clear moments, like windows
through which she caught glimpses of the serene tranquillity with which
the real day, nature's day, the day she ought to have had, was passing.
Frau von Treumann followed her about and talked to her of Karlchen.
Fraeulein Kuhraeuber followed her about, with a humble, dog-like
affection, and seemed to want to tell her something, and never got
further than dark utterances that perplexed her. Baroness Elmreich
repulsed all her advances, carefully called her Miss Estcourt, and made
acid comments on everything that was said and done. "I believe she
dislikes me," thought Anna, puzzled. "I wonder why?" The baroness did;
and the reason was simplicity itself. She disliked her because she was
younger, prettier, richer, healthier than herself. For this she disliked
her heartily; but with far greater heartiness did she dislike her
because she knew she ought to be grateful to her. The baroness detested
having to feel grateful--it is a detestation not confined to
baronesses--and in this case the burden of the obligations she was under
was so great that it was almost past endurance. And there was no escape.
She had been starving when Anna took her in, and she would starve again
if Anna turned her out. She owed her everything; and what more natural,
then, than to dislike her? The rarest of loves is the love of a debtor
for his creditor.

At night, alone in her room, Anna would wonder at the day lived through,
at the unsatisfactoriness of it, and the emptiness. When were they going
to begin the better life, the soul to soul life she was waiting for? How
busy they had all been, and what had they done? Why, nothing. A little
aimless talking, a little aim