"That's right. I had almost forgotten it." She opened the letter and glanced over it. "Well, Effi, not a word? You are not beaming and not even smiling. And yet he always writes such bright and entertaining letters, and not a word of fatherly wisdom in them." "That I should not allow. He has his age and I have my youth. I should shake my finger at him and say: 'Geert, consider which is better.'" "And then he would answer: 'You have what is better.' For he is not only a man of most refined manners, he is at the same time just and sensible and knows very well what youth means. He is always reminding himself of that and adapting himself to youthful ways, and if he remains the same after marriage you will lead a model married life." "Yes, I think so, too, mama. But just imagine--and I am almost ashamed to say it--I am not so very much in favor of what is called a model married life." "That is just like you. And now tell me, pray, what are you really in favor of?" "I am--well, I am in favor of like and like and naturally also of tenderness and love. And if tenderness and love are out of the question, because, as papa says, love is after all only fiddle-faddle, which I, however, do not believe, well, then I am in favor of wealth and an aristocratic house, a really aristocratic one, to which Prince Frederick Charles will come for an elk or grouse hunt, or where the old Emperor will call and have a gracious word for every lady, even for the younger ones. And then when we are in Berlin I am for court balls and gala performances at the Opera, with seats always close by the grand central box." "Do you say that out of pure sauciness and caprice?" "No, mama, I am fully in earnest. Love comes first, but right after love come splendor and honor, and then comes amusement--yes, amusement, always something new, always something to make me laugh or weep. The thing I cannot endure is _ennui_." "If that is the case, how in the world have you managed to get along with us?" "Why, mama, I am amazed to hear you say such a thing. To be sure, in the winter time, when our dear relatives come driving up to see us and stay for six hours, or perhaps even longer, and Aunt Gundel and Aunt Olga eye me from head to foot and find me impertinent--and Aunt Gundel once told me that I was--well, then occasionally it is not very pleasant, that I must admit. But otherwise I have always been happy here, so happy--" As she said the last words she fell, sobbing convulsively, at her mother's feet and kissed her hands. "Get up, Effi. Such emotions as these overcome one, when one is as young as you and facing her wedding and the uncertain future. But now read me the letter, unless it contains something very special, or perhaps secrets."