ADELAIDE (_sighing_). Well, that we women are cleverer than men. We talk just as wisely and I fear are just as glad to forget our wisdom at the first opportunity. We are all of us together poor sinners! IDA. You can joke about it. You never knew what it was to have your father and the man you loved oppose each other as enemies. ADELAIDE. Do you think so! Well, I once had a good friend who had foolishly given her heart to a handsome, high-spirited boy. She was a mere child and it was a very touching relationship: knightly devotion on his part and tender sighings on hers. Then the young heroine had the misfortune to become very jealous, and so far forgot poetry and deportment as to give her heart's chosen knight a box on the ear. It was only a little box, but it had fateful consequences. The young lady's father had seen it and demanded an explanation. Then the young knight acted like a perfect hero. He took all the blame upon himself and told the alarmed father that he had asked the young lady to kiss him--poor fellow, he never had the courage for such a thing!--and the blow had been her answer. A stern man was the father; he treated the lad very harshly. The hero was sent away from his family and his home, and the heroine sat lonely in her donjon-tower and mourned her lost one. IDA. She ought to have told her father the truth. ADELAIDE. Oh, she did. But her confession made matters only worse. Years have gone by since then, and the knight and his lady are now old people and have become quite sensible. IDA (_smiling_). And, because they are sensible, do they not love each other any longer? ADELAIDE. How the man feels about it, dear child, I cannot tell you exactly. He wrote the lady a very beautiful letter after the death of her father--that is all I know about it. But the lady has greater confidence than you, for she still hopes. (_Earnestly_.) Yes, she hopes; and even her father permitted that before he died--you see, she still hopes. IDA (_embracing her_). And who is the banished one for whom she still hopes? ADELAIDE. Hush, dearest, that is a dark secret. Few persons living know about it; and when the birds on the trees of Rosenau tell each other the story they treat it as a dim legend of their forefathers. They then sing softly and sorrowfully, and their feathers stand on end with awe. In due time you shall learn all about it; but now you must think of the fête, and of how pretty you are going to look. IDA. On the one hand the father, on the other the lover--how will it end? ADELAIDE. Do not worry. The one is an old soldier, the other a young statesman; two types that we women have wound around our little fingers from time immemorial! [_Both leave_.] SCENE II