The sympathy which Crammon exhibited was of such obvious superficiality that the countess added with knife-like sharpness of tone: “It was my sister Else, Herr von Crammon, the mother of Letitia. Haven’t you anything to say?” Crammon nodded dreamily. “So she too is gone,” he sighed, “dear woman! And all that was twenty years ago! It was a glorious time, countess. Youth, youth--ah, all the meaning in that word! Don’t remind me, dear countess, don’t remind me! “‘Even the beautiful dies, though it conquer men and immortals, Zeus of the iron breast feels no compassion within.’” “Spare me your poetical quotations,” the countess replied angrily. “You shan’t get the better of me as you did once upon a time. In those days the mask of discretion was the most convenient and comfortable for you to assume; and I don’t deny that you assumed it with the utmost skill. But let me add this at once: One may be as discreet as a mummy, yet there are situations in life in which one is forced to follow the call of one’s heart, that is, if one is provided with such a thing. A momentary hoarseness, a quiver of the lips, a moisture of the eye--that would have sufficed. I observed nothing of the kind in you. Instead you stood by quite calmly, while that poor girl, your daughter, your own flesh and blood, was sold to a filthy maniac, a tiger in human form.” Crammon’s answer was temperate and dignified. “Perhaps you will have the kindness, dear countess, to recall my sincere and insistent warning. I came to you late at night, tormented by conscience, and made the most weighty and solemn representations to you.” “Warning! Fudge! You told me wild stories. You cheated me right and left.” “Those are strong expressions, countess.” “I mean them to be!”