She liked the expression. At times she would stand before the mirror,
and whisper: "Siren."

When Andreas Doederlein heard of what was going on, he had an attack of
mad rage. "I will put you out of the house," he exclaimed, "I will beat
you until you are a helpless, despicable cripple." But in his eyes there
was again the trace of that suppressed fear that gave the lie to his
seeming berserker rage.

"An artist does not need to adapt her morals to the code of the
Philistine," remarked Dorothea, with complete imperturbability. "Those
are all nice people with whom I am going. Every one of them is a
gentleman."

A gentleman: that was an argument against which it was futile to enter a
caveat. In her eyes that man was a gentleman who ran risks, impressed
waiters and coachmen, and wore creased trousers. "No one dares come too
close to me," she said with much pride. That was the truth; no one had
thus far awakened her deepest curiosity, and she had determined to put a
high price on herself. Edmund Hahn was the only one who had any
influence on her; and this was true of him because he was absolutely
devoid of feeling, and had a type of shamelessness that completely
disarmed and terrified her.

Andreas Doederlein had to let her have her way. If he had any consolation
at all, it lay in the belief on his part that a real Doederlein would
never voluntarily come to grief. If Dorothea was a genuine Doederlein,
she would march straight to her objective, and take by storm the good
and useful things of life. If she failed, it would be proof that there
was a flaw somewhere in her birth. This was his logic; and having
applied it, theoretically, he enshrouded himself in the clouds of his
Olympus.

Dorothea gave her uncle Carovius, however, detailed accounts of how she
was making her suitors, young and old, walk the war-path. They all had
to do it, the actor and the banker, the candle manufacturer and the
engineer. She said she was leading the whole pack of them around by the
nose. Herr Carovius's face beamed with joy when he heard her say this.
He called her his little jackanapes, and said she was the fortune of his
old age. To himself he said that she was a genuine Carovius destined to
great deeds.

"You don't have to get married," he said with the urge of a zealot of
old, and rubbed his hands. "Oh, of course, if a Count comes along with a
few millions and a castle in the background, why, you might think it
over. But just let some