"Yes, that's what you say! But when the dreary void comes--and 'he' grows more and more insipid--just you see! You've nothing left to say to yourself--and you mustn't have children--for God's sake!--we _don't_ have them--all of us know how to prevent them from coming. You mustn't share his activities with him either. He acquaints you with as many of them as he is compelled to. And behind it all you feel the hostility of his family, who look upon you as a species of harpy. Then those cursed schemes of his for marrying that he dishes up whenever he's angry. Above all, the longing. It's like a steady toothache. That's it--like the toothache. You don't want to think of it, but wherever you go, it tortures you. For life _cannot_ end that way. Something _must_ happen. It's much worse than if you're married. Just you wait and see." Mrs. Jula's wild words increased the pain at Lilly's heart. A desolate mournfulness threatened to attack her. "Stop," she said. "If it must come, it will come soon enough. I don't care to think of it beforehand." "Right you are, my dear. It doesn't help any, either." Mrs. Jula now took leave. "Will you remember your promise?" asked Lilly from the hall door. "Forever and ever, I swear to you," and Mrs. Jula slipped down the stairs. With her brain in a whirl Lilly returned to her dark drawing-room, sad and distraught, and leaned her head out of the open window for a whiff of fresh air. She saw the little woman, who had just emerged from the front entrance, lightly and gracefully trip along the pavement. A gentleman in a chimney-pot and patent leather shoes came towards her, passed her, started, stopped abruptly, turned about, and, when he reached her side, raised his hat with exaggerated politeness. In the light of the street-lamp Lilly saw her face smiling up at him curiously, insinuatingly--and then they went on their way--together. CHAPTER IX Richard reluctantly adapted himself to a less showy existence. He still wanted to parade his possession of Lilly; but little Mrs. Jula's homily had sunk deep into his conscience, and he did not dare to disobey her. Nevertheless he was bored and vexed and sulky, and Lilly was on the point of herself suggesting that they go to the races, when she received news of her mother's death. She shed the number of tears and suffered the amount of affliction befitting her tender heart. In reality her mother had been dead to her so long before that her grief could not be very profound. Before leaving Berlin to attend the burial at the insane asylum, her greatest concern was to have as simple a mourning dress made as possible. She felt ashamed that she had provided so poorly for her sick mother during her lifetime, and she wished to avoid giving offence by elegance of appearance; which did not prevent the officials and physicians of the institution from dancing attendance on her and treating her as if she were a sort of shining black bird of paradise.