row weary of pursuing
the blue will-o'-the-wisps of fleeting sham loves; he would at last long
to escape from the marsh into which for decades these capricious,
alluring, fleeting flames had deluded him, and would then unresistingly
allow himself to be led by her hand to the firm ground of a tried
affection, in order, even though not until the evening twilight of his
days, to rest with her, at last her own Robert, whom she need share with
no one.

When Linden, on this Tuesday, appeared at Frau von der Lehde's, she of
course instantly noticed his depression, and with her usual sympathy and
gentle tenderness, asked:

"Why are you so melancholy, Robert? What has happened?"

"Melancholy?" forcing himself to a wan smile. "I feel nothing of the
sort."

"Yes, Robert; do you suppose that I do not know the meaning of these
lines on the forehead and between the eyes?"

Oh, those lines! Surely he knew them, too, he had studied them this very
morning with painful attention, but why need she obtrude them upon him?
This was unkind, almost malicious. He released her hand, which he had
held in his own since his entrance, and silently went to an arm-chair.
She followed, took a seat on a stool at his feet, and said caressingly:

"How long has Robert had secrets from Else? May I not know everything?
Has one of my sex again proved faithless? Ah, dearest Robert, so few of
us are worth having people trouble themselves about us."

"That isn't it at all," Robert answered curtly.

"What is it, then?"

Robert remained silent a short time, then, averting his eyes from her
questioning gaze, said:

"This is my birthday."

"You don't suppose that I could forget it? But certainly you do not wish
to be congratulated upon it, to have it mentioned?"

Robert laid his hand upon her lips, murmuring:

"Yet I cannot forget your thinking of it, as I see."

A pause ensued, and he had the unpleasant feeling that his ostrich method
of shunning the sight of a disagreeable fact, must appear very ridiculous.

"Well, and why does your birthday make you melancholy?" asked Else,
kissing his hand as she removed it from her mouth.

"A woman ought to feel that, without any explanation from me."

"It isn't the same thing, dear Robert. But I don't philosophize about
the distinction. At any rate a woman dreads her birthday only because
she is afraid of growing old, and there can be no question of that with
you. At your age a man is not old."