She walked up and down the room, wringing her hands and sobbing, now throwing herself upon a chair and gazing wildly before her, now starting up and again wandering about with gestures of despair. The loud clang of the great bell caught her attention for a moment. She knew that it was something quite unusual--perhaps some great accident had happened: a boiler burst, the saws of one of the machines bent, and the wall to which it was fastened pulled down and in ruins, as had happened a few months ago; perhaps a fire--what did it signify to her whether people were crushed and killed, or all burnt together? Was not she broken and wounded in soul and body, wandering amongst the ruins of the happiness which had never existed except in her dreams! A despairing woman, to whom a hair shirt would be suitable and ashes on her head, that head that she had once carried so proudly--like her father! It was all his fault. He it was, who had declared war between them! And he did not know yet; but the hour was coming soon, even to-day if she were followed--and then? She had lain awake the whole night thinking over that question; she had racked her mind over it the whole morning. And then? and then? How could she alone find an answer without him? And he--he! When last night she described in a few hasty words the scene that had taken place at table, had he given the one only answer that she had expected--"Then we must try to settle it without our fathers' consent!" He had answered nothing, not a word! and his silence confirmed what she had most feared--the only thing that she had feared and dreaded--that he was not prepared to carry the matter out to the last, to its extreme end--that he did not love her as she loved him! Of what use were her courage and determination? She was helpless! She--helpless! She stood still before a looking-glass which she was just passing. She examined her face, her figure as though she were the model whom she had ordered for the next day, and wished to see whether the form thus reflected were really what it laid claim to be. Was she really as beautiful as they all said? Was the great French sculptor right who came to see Justus last year, and at sight of her stood thunderstruck, and then exclaimed that till he saw her he had never believed that nature could have produced so perfect a form. But Antonio, too, was beautiful--beautiful as a dream, and yet she did not love him. And was he, who was not even an artist--was he to let beauty alone so fascinate him that he should give up family prejudice, rank, social position, all--for what? A woman never asks such questions if she loves; she makes no calculations, no bargains--she loves, and gives freely, joyfully, everything that she has to give--she gives herself. She leaned back in her chair, buried her face in the cushions, and shut her eyes.