Thiel's brutal remark: "You must renounce love," was still echoing
painfully in his soul when he entered the home of Frau von der Lehde,
with whom according to old habit, he dined once a week.
Else von der Lehde was a year or two older than he. She had been maid of
honor to the princess, when Robert was a page. She had loved him deeply,
fervently, and received a little responsive affection in return. But
that was already so far back in the past. It was a distant memory,
suffused with the rosy light of dawn, associated with all the new, fresh
feelings of her life, youth, the awakening of her heart, first love,
jealousy, and torment. The little idyl, in its day, was noticed by every
one, but people were disposed to regard it as harmless, and Else herself
afterward strove to see it in the same light, though she was well aware
of its real condition. Still, a beardless boy of eighteen could not
seriously compromise a young lady of twenty, who had been in society
three winters. He was so far from doing so, that the whispers and smiles
of this society did not prevent her becoming the wife of President von
der Lehde who, after fifteen years of wedded life, left her a childless
widow in the most pleasant circumstances.
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