So soon as it dawned on her that he was not in the least disposed to make her responsible and call her to account, her nervous rigidity relaxed; she slid on to the carpet, and, burying her head on his knees, sobbed bitterly. He went on speaking to her in the same soothing, gentle tone. She wrung her hands, and beat her forehead. For an instant her maternal grief, which in spite of everything was strong within her, had full sway without any _arrière pensé_ interrupting it. But her expressions were so wildly exaggerated, that soon even her grief became artificial, and the last remnant of pure and noble sentiment she had possessed was destroyed. Gradually she grew calmer, and she let her arms fall to her sides. A lassitude that was almost pleasant overcame her. She let him raise her and lay her on the couch. She felt the burning desire that children feel after a whipping--to be pitied and consoled. "Oh, Ulrich," she murmured, "what I have suffered!" He started. A sense of disappointment suddenly damped his sympathy. Surely at this hour her first words should not have been words of pity for herself. He said nothing; but his eyes wandered about the room as if he were pondering on some new experience. Supper was announced. The officials who generally sat at table with them had tactfully begged to be excused to-night. Husband and wife were alone. The tea-kettle hummed, and the bronze hanging-lamp shed a soft lustre on the snowy damask and gleaming silver. Felicitas busied herself about his creature-comforts, acting on an impulse to pay off the gigantic debt she owed him with the small coin of little kindnesses and attentions. She prepared his sardines in his favourite way, cut him the thinnest bread-and-butter, and poured two spoonfuls of rum in his tea--a pick-me-up he was obliged sometimes to resort to. She put a cushion at his back, and drew the shade low over the lamp, so that his "poor tired eyes" should not be dazzled. He watched her in painful amazement. He would have preferred satisfying his hunger to-night silently and unobserved, like a dog, and not to have been reminded that there were such things as dainty living and tit-bits in the world. "How can she think of these trifling matters, when a few moments ago she was idling on the floor in despair?" he asked himself. With a fine instinct she divined what was passing in his mind, and changing her tack, began again to give a harrowing account of her own sufferings. "No, Ulrich," she said, "you can't conceive what torture it was to me to think of you alone at his grave: not to be there to help you, and stand by you. But it could not be helped. The doctor gave strict orders that I was not to attempt the journey; besides, I was very ill; a little more and you would not have found me alive." She paused, expecting him to question her about the attempted suicide; but as he was silent she led the conversation round to it herself. "Are you still angry with me, dearest?" she asked.