"Be honest, Mr. Fenger, and admit that you are burning with curiosity, and would much prefer to know something about the young lady, than about my husband's lecture."
The old gentleman laughed.
"Look at him; see how he is blushing! Yes, my wife knows something of human nature; she is quite a Lavater."
To hide my confusion I drained my glass of beer.
"Well; is she pretty?" I asked.
"Pretty? My dear fellow, she is quite a beauty! Yes, but not exactly what one ordinarily means by a beauty. Don't misunderstand me, she is a Thekla from the bourgeoisie, a Lotte, a Fredericka Brion, though perhaps not quite that; she is not a clergyman's daughter from the country either, however idyllic that may be. She is a Kätchen, more than anything a Kätchen!"
"But, dear husband, do you need the whole range of German poetry to aid you? In this way you will raise too great expectations."
"On the contrary! Not even German poetry is sufficient! There is only one thing that is better than German poetry"
"Kant's Critique, I suppose you mean? "
"No, I mean German women—when they are charming. But, joking apart, she is an excellent girl."
"Well, you will see for yourself. She is a relation of mine, rather a distant one. I think I told you that I am from Dresden."
These last words made me lose all my interest. Then, after all, it was not Miss Jagemann of whom they had been speaking. In the first place, she did not look like a Jewess; and secondly, from what the schoolmaster had
