“You know, I think Daniel ought to be more cautious,” she said with her rasping voice. “This being together all alone for hours at a time ain’t going to do no good; no good at all, I say. And the two are always running after each other; if it’s not her, it’s him. If you happen to take ’em by surprise, they jump like criminals. It’s been going on this way for six weeks, day after day. Do you think that’s right? You don’t need to put up with it, Gertrude,” she said in conclusion, making a sad attempt to look coquettish. Then she cast her eyes to the floor, and looked as innocent as a child. Gertrude’s heart grew cold. Her confidence in Daniel was unfaltering, but the venomous remarks made to her left her without peace of mind or body; she could not think clearly. The very fact that such things were being said about Daniel and Eleanore, and that words failed her to stop them because from the very beginning she had borne it all with the self-assurance that naturally springs from contempt for gossip, only tended to make her grief all the more bitter. How hollow any objection on her part would have sounded! How fatuous and ineffective a rebuke from her would have been! Could she muzzle these wicked, slanderous tongues by referring to the peculiarities of Daniel’s nature? Could he be expected to go to Philippina and give an account of himself? A contemptuous smile came to her face when she pondered on such possibilities. And yet, why was she heart-sore? Was it because she was at last beginning to realise that she was unloved? Involuntarily her eyes fell on the mask; it was still covered with the withered rose twigs. She got up and removed them. Her hand trembled as if she were committing some evil act. “Go home, Philippina, I don’t need you any more,” she said. “Oi, it is late, ain’t it? I must be going,” cried Philippina. “Don’t worry, Gertrude,” she said by way of consolation. “And don’t complain of me to your husband; he’ll git ugly if you do. If you say anything bad about me, there’s going to be trouble here, I say. I am a perfect fool; people git out of my way, they do. I’ve got a wicked mouth, I have; there’s no stopping it. Well, good night.” She rubbed her hands down over her skirt, as if she were trying to smooth out the wrinkles; there was an element of comic caution in what she did. Out on the street she began to hum again: _Drah’ di, Madel, drah’ di, Morgen kommt der Mahdi._ XIV When Daniel came home, it was late; but he sat down by the lamp in his room and began to read Jean Paul’s “Titan.” In the course of time his thoughts liberated themselves from the book and went their own way. He got up, walked over to the piano, raised the lid, and struck a chord; he listened with closed eyes: it seemed that some one was calling him. It was a sultry night; the stillness was painful.