This was a prize for which the best man might strive.
That he would ever weary of her, Linden could not now imagine. When he
fancied that she was leaning on his arm, walking with the light, floating
step peculiar to her along the Chiaja, or the Lung Arno, or that he was
sitting with her on the shore of Viarreggio and she leaned her head upon
his breast, it seemed as if palaces, sky, and sea would shine brighter
than of yore as it were in vivified colours. True, Fraeulein von Markwald
was not yet twenty, and he might be her father. But need he hesitate on
that score? At the utmost the difference in age could only disturb her,
and it did not. To him her nineteen years were but one charm; the more
perhaps the most powerful of her attractions. In her radiant, vigorous
youth, he might hope to rejuvenate himself. How had he been so blind as
not to perceive it weeks ago! How could he have waited until Thiel's
harsh warning and Else's importunity thrust him into the right path?
Of course it had not escaped the notice of an old practitioner like him
that he had made an impression upon Fraeulein von Markwald.
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