ousehold, in which there may be as little opening to the temptations
of the world as may be found in any well-ordered house."

"I do not believe that Peter Steinmarc is a God-fearing man."

"Linda, you are very wicked to say so."

"But if he were, it would make no difference."

"Linda!"

"I only know that he loves his money better than anything in the
world, and that he never gives a kreutzer to any one, and that he
won't subscribe to the hospital, and he always thinks that Tetchen
takes his wine, though Tetchen never touches a drop."

"When he has a wife she will look after these things."

"I will never look after them," said Linda.

The conversation was brought to an end as soon after this as Madame
Staubach was able to close it. She had done all that she had intended
to do, and had done it with as much of good result as she had
expected. She had probably not thought that Linda would be quite so
fierce as she had shown herself; but she had expected tears, and
more of despair, and a clearer protestation of abject misery in the
proposed marriage. Linda's mind would now be filled with the idea,
and probably she might by degrees reconcile herself to it, and learn
to think that Peter was not so very old a man. At any rate it would
now be for Peter himself to carry on the battle.

Linda, as soon as she was alone, sat down with her hands before her
and with her eyes fixed, gazing on vacancy, in order that she might
realise to herself the thing proposed to her. She had said very
little to her aunt of the nature of the misery which such a marriage
seemed to offer to her,--not because her imagination made for her
no clear picture on the subject, not because she did not foresee
unutterable wretchedness in such a union. The picture of such
wretchedness had been very palpable to her. She thought that no
consideration on earth would induce her to take that mean-faced old
man to her breast as her husband, her lord--as the one being whom
she was to love beyond everybody else in this world. The picture was
clear enough, but she had argued to herself, unconsciously, that any
description of that picture to her aunt would seem to suppose that
the consummation of the picture was possible. She preferred therefore
to declare that the thing was impossible,--an affair the completion
of which would be quite out of the question. Instead of assuring her
aunt that it would have made her miserable to have to look after
Peter Steinmarc's