"Surmises--oh, what is it they surmise?" She urged him to tell her, whilst her eyes scrutinised his, full of terror. "Nonsense," he said curtly. "Why do you want to trouble about that? But I told you and your husband that at once. If you make such a secret of the boy's parentage, all kinds of interpretations will be placed on it. Well, you would not hear of anything else." "No." Kate closed her eyes and gave a slight shudder. "He's our child--our child alone," she said with a strange hardness in her voice. "And nobody else has anything to do with him." He shook his head and looked at her questioningly, surprised at her tone. Then she jerked out: "I'm afraid." He felt how the hand that was lying on his arm trembled slightly. Amid the gaiety of the evening something had fallen on Kate's joy that paralysed it, as it were. Many questions were asked her about little Wolf--that was so natural, they showed her their friendly interest by means of these questions--and they watched her quietly at the same time: it was marvellous how she behaved. They had hardly believed the delicate woman capable of such heroism. How much she must love her husband, that she took his child--for the boy must be his child, the resemblance was too marked, exactly the same features, the same dark hair--this child of a weak hour to her heart without showing any ill-will or jealousy. She, the childless woman, to take another woman's child. That was grand, almost too grand. They did not understand it quite. And Kate felt instinctively that there was something concealed behind the questions they asked her--was it admiration or compassion, approval or disapproval?--something one could not get hold of, not even name, only suspect. And that embarrassed her. So she only gave reserved answers to their friendly questions about Woelfchen, was concise in what she told them, cool in her tone, and still she could not hinder her voice vibrating secretly. That was the tender happiness she felt, the mother's pride she could not suppress, the warmth of her feelings, which lent her voice its undertone of emotion. The others took if for quite a different emotion. The ladies, who took a walk in the garden after the dinner was over, were chatting confidentially together. The paths that smelt of the pines and in which the coloured lanterns gave a gentle subdued light were just suitable for that. They wandered about in twos and threes, arm in arm, and first of all looked carefully to see if there were any listeners, for their hostess must on no account hear it. There was hardly one among the ladies who had not made her observations. How well she bore up. It was really pathetic to see how resentment and affection, dislike and warmth struggled to get the mastery as soon as there was any talk about the child. And how a restless look would steal into her bright eyes--ah, she must have had and still have much to contend with, poor thing.