"I could, of course, write to father any day," I said; "but as a matter of fact I don't." "But why not?" "It would worry the poor man." "But you might write just once to give him my message." "I will, Augusta, if you will leave me now." "But why do you want to get rid of me? How like you are to him! You have just that same bluntness and the same determination. You interest me at times profoundly." "Well," I said, "if I interest you to the extent of getting you to start your German it would be better." "All right; but what am I to say to that silly Comtesse?" "Tell her that I will see her by-and-by." "You had much better not. She is not worth a grain of salt. A little piece of conceit!" Augusta left the room. She had not been gone many minutes before there came a tap at the door, and the Comtesse, dressed in the palest blue and looking remarkably pretty, entered. "Ah!" she said, "you have caught cold from me, you poor English girl, and I am so disconsolate." She sank down at the foot of the bed and fixed her bright eyes on my face. "You are much better," I said. "Ah, yes, that is so. I am what is called more spirited, and it is because of you; but for you I should be indeed disconsolate. I might have chosen the stupid, the so weary life of the good German housewife, instead of--" "What do you mean?" I said. "I cannot say more. There are secrets which can be guessed but which must not be spoken." "Riki," I said, "I do wish you would give me a right good lesson in talking German." "Oh, but I couldn't--to give you a lesson. But why should I thus discompose myself?" "It would be a good and worthy object for one girl to help another." "I want not to think of objects good and worthy. Why should I? That isn't my aim; that is not what is called my _metier_ in life." I sighed. "You have made me so happy that I should be happy to do what I could to please _you_, and to bring that one very slow smile to your so grave face, and to let your eyes open wide and look into my face so that I should see the lurking goodness within, but it is too troublesome." "Riki, there is something I must say to you." "Why that tone of suffering? I hope it isn't of the so disagreeable nature." "I can't help it if it is. Do you know that you have done something very wrong?" She clasped her hands and looked at me with sad pathos. "Why speak of that?" she said. "Is it to be expected that I should always do what we call right?" "Not always; but it is expected of _every_ one to be straight and upright and above anything mean. A girl of honour always expects to be that." "Would you mind very much if you were to repeat once more your so difficult remark?" I did repeat it. "But straight," said Riki--"straight? That means a line. I make it difficult in my drawing. My line is always what you call wobbly." I could not help laughing. "There, now, you are much more of the agreeable. What would you say to me?"