He pretended to be angry, and Lilly reasoned with him coolly. He mustn't imagine for a moment that she would stand in his way. She had nothing but his happiness at heart. It would make her proud if he gave her his confidence and did not take this step--now or later--without talking it all over with her first. He was touched, kissed her, and replied that so far it was all in the air. But the conversation left Lilly beset with dread as if by a nightmare. Her one coherent thought was, "If he leaves me in the lurch now, what will become of me?" Grief for her mother's death was nothing compared with this martyrdom of anxiety. The vultures that Frau Jula had spoken of occurred to her--all those greedy vultures, in white shirt-fronts and black coats, hovering round to offer her their "good money" directly her friend and protector should have deserted her. And then she thought of those other vultures in Kellermann's picture, cowering on the sun-baked rocks, ready to pounce on the naked beauty directly she became defenceless. "Her chains are her weapon of defence," Lilly said to herself, "and so it is with me. As soon as I am free, I am lost." The next day neither of them alluded at first to the dangerous topic, but Richard was absent-minded and ill at ease. Then Lilly took heart and said huskily, "I see, Richard, you are still undecided in your mind. Won't you bring me a photograph of her to see? No one knows you as well as I do, and no one will be able to judge better whether or not she is suited to you." He vehemently denied that he was trying to make up his mind. The girl was nothing to him. She was an empty-headed doll. But his indignation was not genuine, and his eyes were fixed on space. For "the doll" had five millions. And the next afternoon he brought her photograph. Without taking it out of the soft paper in which it was wrapped, she laid it aside. Merely touching it made her hands tremble. She was afraid that her first glance at it would betray her inward agitation. "Aren't you going to look at it?" he asked, a little disappointed. "There will be time enough when you are gone," she replied, and congratulated herself on her smile of indifference. When he was in the hall she called after him: "To-morrow I will tell you what I think, you know." Then she rushed back to the photograph, not omitting, however, to wave from the window to Richard, a duty which had become a habit with her. "And now ... now the photograph!" Oh, what a good, calm, rather delicate-looking girlish face it was, looking at her with sorrowful though nice eyes. The fair plaits of hair, as thick as a man's wrist, were twisted round the back of the head in country fashion; a timid smile played on the full-lipped mouth. It was the face of a lovable child. Happiness would make it bloom like a spray of lilac put in water. It indicated a nature reposeful, not too gifted, housewifely, and clinging. Exactly what he wanted.