A momentary pause in the conversation had occurred, suddenly broken by Hermann with the question-- "What is your feeling with regard to Antonie?" A deep sigh, and a movement of impatience was the only answer. "You love her?" "I worship her!" "And this worship gives her only too much satisfaction. But now, do you imagine that my proud cousin would be the one to suffer a rival in the shape of an unknown, insignificant little Buergermaedchen? Take care, if she should find it out sooner or later; I assure you, it would dash all your hopes to the ground at once." Eugen looked moodily into space. "Hopes! How could I dare to have any? Am not I _buergerlich_, with no great name, no fortune--do you really imagine that she would be ready to sacrifice her name and rank for me, that Countess Arnau could ever become the wife of an unknown painter?" A sarcastic smile quivered round Hermann's lips-- "Well, if you cannot tell, I am not the one to give you any certainty about the matter. But," added he, mockingly, "it seems to me you are pretty sure of your ground, and that there is not much danger of having 'No' for an answer. Just on that account you must decide for yourself. How shall it be? What have you decided?" Eugen threw himself back into his chair with a despairing exclamation. "Do not torment me with such questions, Hermann! You see my difficulties! It would be kinder to show me some way out of this labyrinth." "The way is plain enough before you! Be a man, and rouse yourself to action energetically. Break quickly and decidedly the chain which has held you down so far, you owe it to Antonie, to your own future, if you do not intend your love for her to be an insult. And then, when you are free, come with me to Italy. The tour is really necessary for the completion of your art studies; if your finances don't admit of it, mine are at your disposal. Come, make haste and decide." The decided, almost commanding manner of the friend, did not seem to admit of any contradiction, and did not fail to impress the young painter, who wrung his hands in deep inward conflict with himself. "I know you are right, only too right. I feel it in every word you say, but, Gertrud! Gertrud! Call me weak, call me what you will, but I cannot bear to know that she is unhappy, unhappy through me." With a movement of the greatest impatience, Hermann pushed back his chair and sprang up. "Well, then, if you cannot, I shall act for you. Ah, here comes Antonie, just at the right time." "What are you going to do?" cried Eugen, alarmed. "Cut the knot which ties you to despair! Good morning, _liebe Toni_." Eugen longed to protest and entreat against his friend's intentions, which he dimly portended, but it was already too late. A dress rustled before the door of the pavilion, and a young lady crossed the threshold.