Mlle. Emma had apparently been undergoing one of those sharp lectures that Lerne distributed so prodigally. Her frightened expression showed that. She had not even the courage to make the conventional grimace usual in cases of constrained amiability, and merely made an awkward sort of bow. As for me, after bowing, I dared not raise my eyes for fear my uncle should read my soul in them. My soul? If by soul one means (as is generally meant) that _ensemble_ of faculties which result in man’s being a little above the other animals, I think I had better not compromise my soul in this matter. Oh, I’m not unaware that, if all loves, even the purest, are originally animal desires, esteem and friendship sometimes add themselves thereto to ennoble the relations of man and woman. Alas! If some Fragonard wished to commemorate our first interview and, in the 18th century manner, depict Love as presiding over it, I should advise him to study a certain little Eros with goat’s feet and thighs, a faun-like Cupid unsmiling and wingless; his arrows should be wooden and in a quiver made of bark, and should be dripping with blood; he might indeed pass under the name of Pan. He is Love universal, Pleasure that is unintentionally fecund, the Master of Life who takes equal heed of lairs and eyries, beasts’ dens and bridal beds. Are there degrees of femininity? In that case, I never saw a woman who was more a woman than Emma. I shall not describe her, having scarcely noted more in her than an abstraction and not an object. Was she beautiful? No doubt; most assuredly desirable. Yet, I do remember her hair. It had the color of fire, a dull red--possibly dyed--and the image of her body passes even now through my dead passion. It would have put all flat-figured ladies to shame. Well, this adorable creature was at the height of her charm. The blood beat against my brain pan, and suddenly a fierce jealousy possessed me. In truth I should willingly have given up this girl, provided no one else should touch her ever. From unpleasing, Lerne now became odious to me. I should remain _now_--at any price. Meanwhile we did not know what to say. Thrown off my balance by the suddenness of the incident, and wishing to hide my confusion, I stuttered out anyhow: “You see, uncle, I was just looking at that photograph.” “Ah, yes! Me and my assistants, Wilhelm, Karl, and Johann. And this is Macbeth, my pupil. It’s very like him. What do you think of it, Emma?” He had put the photograph under his ward’s eyes and pointed out to her a man close-shaven in the American way, slim, short and young, with a distinguished bearing, who had his hand on the back of the St. Bernard dog. “A handsome, intelligent fellow, eh?” said the Professor in a mocking voice. “The ace of Scots!” Emma never changed her look of terror. She articulated with difficulty: “His Nelly was very amusing with her performing-dog tricks.” “And Macbeth,” said my uncle in a jesting voice. “Was _he_ amusing?”