She went upstairs with Leuthold; and, when seated upon the couch in his study, she could not but observe the comfortable, cosy arrangement of the room, the delicate cleanliness and order reigning in it; while upon the table before her lay several exercise-books labelled "Ernestine von Hartwich." Involuntarily she was inspired with a kind of confidence in the grave, elegant man who had received her with so much grace. She inspected him with the experienced eyes of a woman of the world. His bearing was blameless, and his regular features bore an unmistakably intellectual stamp. Far-sighted and clever as the Staatsräthin was, she was too much of a woman not to be impressed by the good taste in Leuthold's appearance and manner, and she was inclined to think Heim's estimate of him as somewhat unjust. She did not belong to the class of women ready to be imposed upon by a small hand with filbert-shaped, carefully-kept nails; but the refinement of Leuthold's person and surroundings was very agreeable in her eyes. "The neatness and order that I see here surprise me, Herr Doctor," she began, as Leuthold seated himself opposite her; "for I hear that your wife is not with you at present." "No, madam, I am alone; but I have an acute sense of fitness in exterior arrangements, and probably pay more attention to such things than is quite becoming in a man." "Will your wife's absence be of long duration?" asked the Staatsräthin with interest. A shadow passed over Leuthold's countenance. "I fear, yes, madam. My wife, unfortunately, had not sufficient affection for our child and myself to endure the deprivations to which the disappointment of our hopes of an inheritance from my brother subjected us. She returned to her father for an indefinite time, and, as she has succeeded in keeping away now from her little daughter for two months, I have great doubts of her return." "But that is very sad for you, Herr Doctor," remarked the Staatsräthin. Leuthold passed his hand across his eyes. "It is sad indeed, madam, that I should have made such a choice,--that I should have expended years of love and pains in the attempt to cultivate and train a nature incapable of culture. Mine is the same pain which is experienced by the sculptor who finds a serious flaw in the marble upon which he has spent years of labour. He exhausts himself in the endeavour to shape it according to his ideal, and, just when he hopes for its completion, a dark vein is laid bare by his chisel,--his work is worthless,--he has hoped and laboured in vain!" The Staatsräthin looked at him with interest, "That is rather coldly put, and yet poetically conceived, sir." "An artist would not call it cold, madam, for he would know how great the suffering is to which I have ventured to compare my own."