less sewing, a little aimless walking
about, a few letters to write that need not have been written, a
newspaper to glance into that did not really interest anybody, meals in
rapid succession, night, and oblivion. That was what was on the surface.
What was beneath the surface she could only guess at; for after a whole
fortnight with the Chosen she was still confronted solely by surfaces.
In the hot forest, drowsy and aromatic, where the white butterflies,
like points of light among the shadows of the pine-trunks, fluttered up
and down the unending avenues all day long, she wandered, during the
afternoon hour when the Chosen napped, to the most out-of-the-way nooks
she could find; and sitting on the moss where she could see some special
bit of loveliness, some distant radiant meadow in the sunlight beyond
the trees, some bush with its delicate green shower of budding leaves at
the foot of a giant pine, some exquisite effect of blue and white
between the branches so far above her head, she would ponder and ponder
till she was weary.

There was no mistaking Karlchen's looks; she had not been a pretty girl
for several seasons at home in vain. Karlchen meant to marry her. She,
of course, did not mean to marry Karlchen, but that did not smooth any
of the ruggedness out of the path she saw opening before her. She would
have to endure the preliminary blandishments of the wooing, and when the
wooing itself had reached the state of ripeness which would enable her
to let him know plainly her own intentions, there would be a grievous
number of scenes to be gone through with his mother. And then his mother
would shake the Kleinwalde dust from her offended feet and go, and
failure number one would be upon her. In the innermost recesses of her
heart, offensive as Karlchen's wooing would certainly be, she thought
that once it was over it would not have been a bad thing; for, since his
visit, it was clear that Frau von Treumann was not the sort of inmate
she had dreamed of for her home for the unhappy. Unhappy she had
undoubtedly been, poor thing, but happy with Anna she would never be.
She had forgiven the first fibs the poor lady had told her, but she
could not go on forgiving fibs for ever. All those elaborate untruths,
written and spoken, about Karlchen's visit, how dreadful they were.
Surely, thought Anna, truthfulness was not only a lovely and a pleasant
thing but it was absolutely indispensable as the basis to a real
friendship.