a, the wife of von Hartrott. Why had not her
son--that professor of inexhaustible sufficiency whom he now believed to
have been a spy--taken her home with him? For what sentimental caprice
had she wished to stay with her sister, losing the opportunity of
returning to Berlin before the frontiers were closed?

The presence of this woman in his home was the cause of many
compunctions and alarms. Fortunately, the chauffeur and all the
men-servants were in the army. The two chinas received an order in a
threatening tone. They must be very careful when talking to the French
maids--not the slightest allusion to the nationality of Dona Elena's
husband nor to the residence of her family. Dona Elena was an
Argentinian. But in spite of the silence of the maids, Don Marcelo was
always in fear of some outburst of exalted patriotism, and that his
wife's sister might suddenly find herself confined in a concentration
camp under suspicion of having dealings with the enemy.

Frau von Hartrott made his uneasiness worse. Instead of keeping a
discreet silence, she was constantly introducing discord into the home
with her opinions.

During the first days of the war, she kept herself locked in her room,
joining the family only when summoned to the dining room. With tightly
puckered mouth and an absent-minded air, she would then seat herself at
the table, pretending not to hear Don Marcelo's verbal outpourings
of enthusiasm. He enjoyed describing the departure of the troops, the
moving scenes in the streets and at the stations, commenting on events
with an optimism sure of the first news of the war. Two things were
beyond all discussion. The bayonet was the secret of the French, and the
Germans were shuddering with terror before its fatal, glistening point.
. . . The '75 cannon had proved itself a unique jewel, its shots being
absolutely sure. He was really feeling sorry for the enemy's artillery
since its projectiles so seldom exploded even when well aimed. . . .
Furthermore, the French troops had entered victoriously into Alsace;
many little towns were already theirs.

"Now it is as it was in the '70's," he would exult, brandishing his fork
and waving his napkin. "We are going to kick them back to the other side
of the Rhine--kick them! . . . That's the word."

Chichi always agreed gleefully while Dona Elena was raising her eyes to
heaven, as though silently calling upon somebody hidden in the ceiling
to bear witness to such errors and