it, and its walls were completely covered with bookshelves right up to the ceiling.
"Well, Prince, there's my hermitage," said Imma Spoelmann. "I hope you like it."
"Why, it's glorious," he said. But he did not look round him, but gazed unintermittently at her, as she reclined against the sofa cushions by the hexagonal table. She was wearing one of her beautiful indoor dresses, a summer one this time, made of white accordion-pleated stuff, with open sleeves and gold embroidery on the yoke. The skin of her arms and neck seemed brown as meerschaum against the white of the dress; her big, bright, earnest eyes in the strangely childlike face seemed to speak a language of their own unceasingly, and a smooth wisp of black hair hung across her forehead. She had Klaus Heinrich's rose in her hand.
"How lovely!" he said, standing before her, and not conscious of what he meant. His blue eyes, above the national cheek-bones, were heavy as with grief. "You have as many books," he added, "as my sister Ditlinde has flowers."
"Has the Princess so many flowers?"
"Yes, but of late she has not set so much store by them."
"Let's clear these away," she said and took up some books.
"No, wait," he said anxiously. "I've such a lot to say to you, and our time is so short. You must know that to-day is my birthday—that's why I came and brought you the rose."
"Oh," she said, "that is an event. Your birthday to-day? Well, I'm sure that you received all your congratulations with the dignity you always show. You may have mine as well! It was sweet of you to bring me the rose, although it has its doubtful side." And she tried the mouldy smell once more with an expression of fear on her face. "How old are you to-day, Prince?"
