"I am no longer so foolish as I was formerly. Paul has lent me many books; I have educated myself, and you need not assume a tone of superiority towards me. Talk to me of what you will, of the Saint Simonites, of the nature of Christianity, of George Sand, of Lælia and Pulcheria, of National Assemblies--I am ready. 'I think slowly,' says Paul, 'but I retain all firmly.' And you believe that I am still such a child of nature as formerly! But I am not coquettish, only ask Paul; he thinks I am too little so. I always show myself as I am; I am a nature clear as crystal, but too transparent. You call me coquettish? It is dreadful!" Cäcilie sought to appease her sister-- "But, dear child, it is no insult! Who would not be coquettish? I am so! We only wish to please; it is required of us. We are forced to wish it. Without coquettishness we should be left sitting still at balls and through life, and we should not even be enabled to fulfil those serious duties of which so much is said to us." Olga was soon pacified; the sisters kissed each other across the work-table, and glances of mutual affection passed between them. Then the door bell was rung; Frau von Dornau, in her cooking apron and nightcap, which she thought was indispensable as a protection against the draught of the kitchen, rushed in to announce Herr von Wegen, who wished to speak to Cäcilie. Frau von Dornau was in a state of great perturbation; she was ashamed of the costume in which she had been surprised, and the strange gentleman looked so festive. If her sight had not deceived her, he carried a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Olga disappeared behind the _portière_; her mother, who had hastily thrown on a bright-coloured shawl, admitted the gentleman, and then repaired to her cooking utensils. Herr von Wegen appeared, smiling pleasantly; he had summoned all the graces to his toilet, his fair little moustache was daintily curled, the colour in his cheeks seemed fresher than usual, even his hair, the contemplation of which in the mirror had filled him with well justified melancholy, was so artistically arranged and disposed, that a superficial glance did not perceive the sad deficiency which was concealed beneath the adroit grouping of the meagre supply. The cross of the Order of St. John adorned his coat, and with his gloves, of the verdant colour of hope, he held a bunch of camellias, trumpet flowers and other hot-house plants, amongst which also a few half frozen asters from the autumnal beds had been mingled. "My Fräulein," said he, "I bid you heartily welcome to your home; may these flowers, at least, remind you of the beautiful south." Cäcilie accepted the flowers, while expressing her thanks. "And may you, at the same time, see in them a greeting of old friendship; I cannot make a long speech, Fräulein, but I bid you welcome once more."