“That is the one consolation of those who are excluded from it.” “Then at least grant it to such poor devils, who would otherwise be left despairing,” he said, with a good-humored laugh; and, going back to his subject, he overwhelmed me with entreaties to find out from Clara, without her knowing it, if he were in any way obnoxious to her. To this I answered that I could save myself that trouble; that he was anything but obnoxious to her. “And you think, then, that I may hope in time----?” “In time? This very day, if you only choose to ask.” “Countess!” “Why are you so surprised? Clara would never dream for a moment of refusing you. When has she ever had a chance of making such a match before?” “Ah--of making such a match,” he repeated, crestfallen. “If it were only----You could not have given me greater discouragement, countess, than in that one word.” And so, in his discouragement, he poured out to poor me an harangue about love, intellect, mutual understanding; winding up with the trite remark that nothing in married life is so important as are these things. Any poor devil who had not known a day’s happiness in his life, or what money can bring, could not have spoken more eloquently. Awfully odd! it did not seem all nonsense to me--at least not the whole time. There were actually moments in which the thought came over me, perhaps, after all, he is not so utterly wrong; perhaps there really is something in sympathy of taste, as well as in suitability of position. (Certainly position alone does not promote happiness.) And then I thought to myself, “You are a good man and clever; I am not a bad girl or a stupid one; why should not we have suited each other? Perhaps I was a goose for my pains to have thrown you in Clara’s way! But that little _malaise_ soon passed over, and I began to picture her felicity, and the joke it would be to ask her if she would accept the count. Then, too, I remembered the many tricks I had played her; and how ill I had requited her friendship for me; and so, extending my hand in right good fellowship, I exclaimed: “All right! Shake hands upon it. I will obtain permission for you to plead your cause. Take it all in all, Clara is well suited to you. She has always said that in marriage the bridegroom was more to be considered than his rentroll.” My red sportswoman’s hands have often been kissed, but never so fervently as by the count at that juncture. Suffice it to say, Nesti, all went off splendidly. Clara’s perplexity was tremendous; how at first she said No, in her humility and discretion; how the count then went at it with a will, swearing a man could only marry one woman--and what was to be done if that woman would not have him? The bliss of Casa Aarheim can be more easily imagined than described. My people seemed less overjoyed. Mamma puffed away at her nineteenth cigar that day. Papa pinched my cheek, and said: “I say, pussy.” “What, papa?” “You are a goose.”