“Let’s talk of something more interesting—Rudolph, for instance.” (Rudolph was one of the young men of whom Albert was jealous.) She gave a short mischievous laugh. He looked at her earnestly. He wondered why she was teasing him about Rudolph. Her mobile features underwent expressions he could not understand. Then he turned to her suddenly, with self-pity in his voice, and said, “Why do you dislike me so much, Hilda?” And before she had a chance to reply he added petulantly, “Everybody here dislikes me—everybody!” There was the peevishness of the vexed child in his voice, with a lump of emotion in his throat. Although he had not clearly thought of this before, no sooner had the words escaped him than he believed them. He felt himself hated by all around him. Her attitude toward him changed instantly. Leaning forward, with the book replaced in her lap so he could see it was “Herman and Dorothea”, she said, “Oh, Albert, you only imagine things. Mother is very fond of you, and so is father, only they don’t think you apply yourself to business assiduously enough.” Her beautiful sea-green eyes rested on his face sympathetically. She looked at him as if to convince him she was not merely saying this to soothe him. “I know, I know, they all think me an idler, a good-for-nothing, a worthless fellow.” His words came precipitately, passionately. “They can’t see any good in anyone unless he is immersed in business—nothing counts but business success. All I hear is money, money, money everywhere!” He raised his hands as if he meant to shut out the sight of money. “It rings in my ears from morning till night—it rings all over Hamburg. It’s deafening—money! Nothing else interests anybody. Neither literature nor music nor art of any sort. Money seems an end in itself. Ah! It’s maddening—maddening! I am made to feel every moment that God created all the beauty in the world—the green trees and the blooming flowers and the foamy waves—and women’s beautiful eyes and their luxuriant hair and their crimson lips (he was looking at her yearningly)—with only one end in the scheme of creation—money! Oh, I am disgusted with everything——.” “You are morbid, Albert,” she said, looking straight at him and noting the despondency in his dreamy countenance. Then she smiled and added, “You are a Werther without a Charlotte.” He felt the sting of her remark. To him her flippant retort was full of meaning. “Even you hate me,” he burst out. He turned his face away. “What makes you say such things?” she demanded. “I can see it. You don’t act toward me as you do toward—” he tossed his head without completing the sentence. “As I do toward Rudolph,” she finished it for him with a light laugh. Then she gazed at him for a moment and, shaking her head, said, “You silly boy.” “I don’t blame you—Rudolph is a shrewd business man and I am only a clerk in your father’s bank—” “So you think I am in love with Rudolph—” “I know you hate me—” “Why should I hate you?”