“What am I to do about that fox? It was only a joke, you know; but if Miss Fahler gets to hear of it, she’ll think it was rather shabby.” It was always Miss Fahler now; a couple of days before it was Franziska. “For my part,” says Tita, “I can’t understand why you did it. What honour is there in shooting a fox?” “But I wanted to give the skin to her.” It was “her” by this time. “Well, I think the best thing you can do is to go and tell her all about it; and also to go and apologise to Dr. Krumm.” Charlie started. “I will go and tell her, certainly; but as for apologising to Krumm, that is absurd!” “As you please,” says Tita. By-and-by Franziska--or rather Miss Fahler--came out of the small garden and round by the front of the house. “O Miss Fahler,” says Charlie, suddenly,--and with that she stops and blushes slightly,--“I’ve got something to say to you. I am going to make a confession. Don’t be frightened; it’s only about a fox--the fox that was brought home the day before yesterday; Dr. Krumm shot that.” “Indeed,” says Franziska, quite innocently, “I thought you shot it.” “Well, I let them imagine so. It was only a joke.” “But it is of no matter; there are many yellow foxes. Dr. Krumm can shoot them at another time; he is always here. Perhaps you will shoot one before you go.” With that Franziska passed into the house, carrying her fruit with her. Charlie was left to revolve her words in his mind. Dr. Krumm could shoot foxes when he chose; he was always here. He, Charlie, on the contrary, had to go away in little more than a fortnight. There was no Franziska in England; no pleasant driving through great pine woods in the gathering twilight; no shooting of yellow foxes, to be brought home in triumph and presented to a beautiful and grateful young woman. Charlie walked along the white road and overtook Tita, who had just sat down on a little camp-stool, and got out the materials for taking a water-colour sketch of the Huferschingen Valley. He sat down at her feet on the warm grass. “I suppose I sha’n’t interrupt your painting by talking to you?” he says. “Oh dear, no,” is the reply; and then he begins, in a somewhat hesitating way, to ask indirect questions and drop hints and fish for answers, just as if this small creature, who was busy with her sepias and olive greens, did not see through all this transparent cunning. At last she said to him, frankly: “You want me to tell you whether Franziska would make a good wife for you. She would make a good wife for any man. But then you seem to think that I should intermeddle and negotiate and become a go-between. How can I do that? My husband is always accusing me of trying to make up matches; and you know that isn’t true.” “I know it isn’t true,” says the hypocrite; “but you might only this once. I believe all you say about this girl; I can see it for myself; and when shall I ever have such a chance again?”