And while she wandered about the deserted garden and was desolate, Robertlet and Ditti, safe in their grandmother's house, were having the most beautiful dumplings every day for dinner that seemed to fit into each part of them as warmly and neatly as though they were bits of their own bodies come back, after having been artificially separated, to fill them with a delicious hot contentment, and their grandmother was saying to them at regular intervals with a raised forefinger: "My children, never forget that you are Germans." There was now nothing left for Ingeborg but, as she told Herr Dremmel the first Sunday Robertlet and Ditti had been coming home and then for some obscure reason did not come, thrusting the information tactlessly at tea-time between his attention and his book, her own inside. "After all," she said, as usual quite suddenly, breaking a valuable silence, "there's still me." Herr Dremmel said nothing, for it was one of those statements of fact that luckily do not require an answer. "Nobody," said Ingeborg, throwing her head back a little, "can take that away." Herr Dremmel said nothing to that either, chiefly because he did not want to. He had no time nor desire to guess at meanings which were, no doubt, after all not there. "Whatever happens," she said, "I've still got my own inside." "Ingeborg," said Herr Dremmel, "I will not ask you what you mean in case you should tell me." There was a drought going on, and Herr Dremmel, who justly prided himself on his sweetness of temper, was not as patient as usual; so Ingeborg, silenced, went into the garden where the drought was making the world glow and shimmer, and reflected that on the object she called her inside alone now depended her happiness. It was useless to depend on others; it was useless to depend, as she had done in her ridiculous vanity, on others depending on her. After all, each year had a May in it and the birds sang. She would send away the extra servant and do the work herself, as she used to at first. She would begin again to develop her intelligence, and write that evening to London for the _Spectator_. Something, she remembered, had warmed and quickened her all those years ago after her meeting with Ingram--was it the _Spectator_? She would make plans. She would draw up plans in red ink. There were a thousand things she might study. There were languages.