Still Klesmer did not speak. He drew off his gloves quickly, tossed them into his hat, rested his hands on his hips, and walked to the other end of the room. He was filled with compassion for this girl: he wanted to put a guard on his speech. When he turned again, he looked at her with a mild frown of inquiry, and said with gentle though quick utterance, “You have never seen anything, I think, of artists and their lives?—I mean of musicians, actors, artists of that kind?” “Oh, no,” said Gwendolen, not perturbed by a reference to this obvious fact in the history of a young lady hitherto well provided for. “You are—pardon me,” said Klesmer, again pausing near the piano—“in coming to a conclusion on such a matter as this, everything must be taken into consideration—you are perhaps twenty?” “I am twenty-one,” said Gwendolen, a slight fear rising in her. “Do you think I am too old?” Klesmer pouted his under lip and shook his long fingers upward in a manner totally enigmatic. “Many persons begin later than others,” said Gwendolen, betrayed by her habitual consciousness of having valuable information to bestow. Klesmer took no notice, but said with more studied gentleness than ever, “You have probably not thought of an artistic career until now: you did not entertain the notion, the longing—what shall I say?—you did not wish yourself an actress, or anything of that sort, till the present trouble?” “Not exactly: but I was fond of acting. I have acted; you saw me, if you remember—you saw me here in charades, and as Hermione,” said Gwendolen, really fearing that Klesmer had forgotten. “Yes, yes,” he answered quickly, “I remember—I remember perfectly,” and again walked to the other end of the room. It was difficult for him to refrain from this kind of movement when he was in any argument either audible or silent. Gwendolen felt that she was being weighed. The delay was unpleasant. But she did not yet conceive that the scale could dip on the wrong side, and it seemed to her only graceful to say, “I shall be very much obliged to you for taking the trouble to give me your advice, whatever it maybe.” “Miss Harleth,” said Klesmer, turning toward her and speaking with a slight increase of accent, “I will veil nothing from you in this matter. I should reckon myself guilty if I put a false visage on things—made them too black or too white. The gods have a curse for him who willingly tells another the wrong road. And if I misled one who is so young, so beautiful—who, I trust, will find her happiness along the right road, I should regard myself as a—_Bösewicht_.” In the last word Klesmer’s voice had dropped to a loud whisper. Gwendolen felt a sinking of heart under this unexpected solemnity, and kept a sort of fascinated gaze on Klesmer’s face, as he went on.