"Don't talk to him," Axel replied in a low voice; "the man so palpably hates us both. You must go home. Where is your carriage? Princess, take her home." "_Ach, Herr Dellwig, seien Sie so freundlich_----" began the princess mellifluously; and despatched him in search of Fritz. When they reached Kleinwalde, silent, wornout, and only desiring to creep upstairs and into their beds, they were met by Frau von Treumann and the baroness, who both wore injured and disapproving faces. Letty slipped up to her room at once, afraid of criticisms of her hairlessness. "We have waited for you all night, Anna," said Frau von Treumann in an aggrieved voice. "You oughtn't to have," said Anna wearily. "We could not suppose that you were really looking at the fire all this time," said the baroness. "And we were anxious," said Frau von Treumann. "My dear, you should not make us anxious." "You might have left word, or taken us with you," said the baroness. "We are quite as much interested in Herr von Lohm as Letty or Princess Ludwig can be," said Frau von Treumann. "Nobody could tell us here for certain whether you had really gone there or not." "Nor could anybody give us any information as to the extent of the disaster." "We presumed the princess was with you, but even that was not certain." "My dear baroness," murmured the princess, untying her shawl, "only you would have had a doubt of it." "The reflection in the sky faded hours ago," said Frau vein Treumann. "And yet you did not return," said the baroness. "Where did you go afterwards?" "Oh, I'll tell you everything to-morrow. Good-night," said Anna, candle in hand. "What! Now that we have waited, and in such anxiety, you will tell us nothing?" "There really is nothing to tell. And I am so tired--good-night." "We have kept the servants up and the kettle boiling in case you should want coffee." "That was very kind, but I only want bed. Good-night." "We too were weary, but you see we have waited in spite of it." "Oh, you shouldn't have. You will be so tired. Good-night." She went upstairs, pulling herself up each step by the baluster. The clock on the landing struck half-past three. Was it not Napoleon, she thought, who said something to the point about three-o'clock-in-the-morning courage? Had no one ever said anything to the point about three-o'clock-in-the-morning love for one's fellow-creatures? "Good-night," she said once more, turning her head and nodding wearily to them as they watched her from below with indignant faces. She glanced at the clock, and went into her room dejectedly; for she had made a startling discovery: at three o'clock in the morning her feeling towards the Chosen was one of indifference verging on dislike. CHAPTER XXVI