"Oswald, you are the luckiest dog alive!" he cried. "Why, the thing is evident. The young lady can be nobody else but the little Grenwitz. The girl has indeed ten times more sense and pluck than her chaste lover, who understands so little of the great art of seizing fortune by the hem of her garment. In good earnest, Oswald, the cards have been dealt so well for you, it could not be better. Of course, it will not be quite so easy to take the fortress. The Jager has evidently said more than she was authorized to say; but never mind that--you have the outworks, and if you do not get on soon it is your own fault. When are you to be at Primula's house?" "At seven." "It is five now; we have two hours time. Come, let us consider the plan of operation with the help of a good glass of wine. Charles the Bald has an excellent hock, and you must drink of that bravely, so that you may show yourself strong and hearty in your enterprise and permit no trace of sickly hesitation to be seen. Come!" CHAPTER VI. Primula was sitting in her study before a table covered with new books, magazines, and papers. The door was open towards the reception-room, which was also lighted up. She had just finished a longer poem, which had to be sent this very evening to the editor of a literary journal, in the "correspondence" of which the following notice had appeared three times already: "P. V. in Gr. Great and gifted friend:--We await the promised MS. _impatiently_." There it was now, the promised MS., written with the heart's blood of the poetess! She had but just placed the last dot over the last i, and already it was to be sent away into the wide heartless world, before he who had inspired all these glowing stanza had ever seen a line of the poem! If he would only come early, so that she might read him at least a few stanzas before that young Baroness Cloten came, in whose presence that would of course be impossible! There, listen! Was not that a ring at the bell? The door is open below ... A deep male voice ... It is he! it is he! Thanks be to you, oh gracious gods! Primula blushed, cast a glance at the mirror that was hanging over her writing-table and pushed the fair curls from her blushing face, seized a pen and began although there was no ink in the pen--to scribble with nervous eagerness on a blank sheet. "Do I interrupt you?" asked the deep voice, close to her ear. "Why, great heavens!" exclaimed the poetess, casting away the pen; "is it you, Oswald? I had not heard you come at all." "You were kind enough, madame, to tell me in the most charming note that I have ever read----" "You flatterer! If you praise thus the simple lines of this morning, what will you say of these verses which I have written this evening with glowing brow and beating heart, thinking of no one but yourself? I must read you at least the beginning. She will not be here so soon; perhaps not at all." "But who is it?"