"Did you see the Pope, and eat maccaroni?" "The Pope, yes, at the feast of _Corpus Christi_, when he bears upon his back a gigantic sun which shines upon his mounted _guardia nobile_." "And the maccaroni?" "A horrible thing! Wearisome as is everything interminable! It is difficult to eat it gracefully." After a pause, Olga said-- "Poor Wegen! He must have wearied for you? Have you not written to one another?" "No," replied Cäcilie, coolly. "I do not believe in his love; daily it became more timid--any true lover has courage. He let himself be bullied by his aunts and cousins, whom I pleased but little." "Such a good match," said Olga; "a pleasant, good-hearted man. It would be a pity!" "You would like to have me married," said Cäcilie, while she threaded a needle. "You have your reasons for it." "But, sister--" "It is the best plan to get me out of the way; you, meanwhile, have had time to gain Paul's heart exclusively for yourself." "That is not the case! Why, you know his theories." "Theories? Dear child! you do not escape me thus! People are consistent in theory, but inconsistent in practice. Theories are for holidays, but for work-days a compromise exists. Men would be great thinkers, original geniuses; everything in the world has been thought of once already; people seek for a truth, which at least appears to be new, and prosecute it to the uttermost. This daring fills one with horror. In the world, however, provision is made against trees growing into the sky, and the lords of creation are not so stupid as to let their cleverness cause them to do anything inconvenient. They declare the impossible to be the law of the universe; in life they content themselves with the most practicable possibilities. Our mutual friend also is merely a Titan in his hours of leisure; when he cannot storm heaven with his hundred arms, he contents himself with two, with which to caress one single sweetheart." "But we do not need to complain that he has become faithless to his theories." "Towards me he was cool enough at our last meeting; a temperature in which at most the snowdrops of friendship flourish. The hot-house warmth for the marvellous flowers of passion he seems to reserve for you." "But I can assure you, sister, he is just as he was." "But only towards you he is so; I was foolish to remain so long away. I know, though, you are a coquette." "Sister," cried Olga, while she gave an angry push to the work-table, so that it threatened to lose its equilibrium. "I do not reproach you; it lies in your nature. You are an elementary being; you need life and pleasure, like a hundred thousand creatures between heaven and earth. Wherever you scent anything of the kind, you make bigger eyes than you possess naturally, and force aside everything that obstructs your path."