She had dropped her work in her lap again, and for a moment covered her eyes and forehead with her left hand, while the fingers of her right, which rested on the work, trembled slightly; then her hand fell heavily, and she stared fixedly at the ground with a frowning brow, as she said in the same hollow tone: "What reason should I have to keep you?" "Perhaps because you might be glad to see me here," answered Gotthold. He thought she had not heard the words, but they had been distinctly audible; the pause only lasted until she was sure that she could speak again without bursting into tears. She would not, dared not weep, and now regained her self-control. "You know I am," she replied; "but that is no reason for wishing to keep you. I feel too well how unpleasant life is here, how monotonous, how tiresome to all who are not accustomed to it, and one cannot become accustomed to things in a few days, it requires years, long years. So I invite no one--I cannot believe anybody takes pleasure in coming; and I detain no one--I can easily imagine that a guest is glad to go. Why should I treat you differently from others?" "There is no reason, if I am no more to you than others." "More? What does that imply? Oh! you mean because we knew each other so early in life, because we were friends when we were both young? But what does that signify? What is youthful friendship? And do we remain the same? You have done so perhaps, at least in the principal thing, but I certainly have not; I resemble the Cecilia of those days as little as--as reality resembles our dreams; and besides--I am married; a wife needs no friend, has no friend, if she loves her husband, and if she does not--" "Let us suppose the latter case," said Gotthold, as Cecilia suddenly paused. "The case is not so simple as it seems," she answered, examining the stitches in her sewing; "yes, many cases may be imagined. For instance, it is very probable that he loves her, and even a woman of very little nobility of character is rarely insensible to and ungrateful for true love; but granted that he does not love her, loves her no longer, perhaps never has loved her--well, then everything will depend upon how the wife is constituted. Perhaps she is not proud, and therefore not ashamed to confess her unhappiness to a friend, who might then venture to become her lover; or if she is proud, she will do--I know not what, but certainly she would conceal herself in the deepest chasm in the earth, rather than give way and say, no matter to whom, I am unhappy!" "And if that is not necessary, if her misery is written on her brow, looks from her eyes, speaks in every tone of her voice?" Something flitted over Cecilia's face like the shadow of a cloud; but she smoothed her work with special care, as she answered in a passionless, almost monotonous voice: