'Seven and a half!'
'Eight!'
'The man is mad,' said Herr Erchardt.
'Well, please let him be mad in peace,' said I, putting my hands over my ears.
'Such ignorance must not be allowed to go uncontradicted,' said he, and turning his back on us, too exhausted to cry out any longer, he held up seven and a half fingers.
'Eight!' thundered the greybeard, with pristine freshness.
We felt very sobered, and did not recover until we reached a white signpost which entreated us to leave the road and walk through the field path—without trampling down more of the grass than was necessary. Being interpreted, it meant 'single file', which was distressing for Elsa and Fritz. Karl, like a happy child, gambolled ahead, and cut down as many flowers as possible with the stick of his mother's parasol—followed the three others—then myself—and the lovers in the rear. And above the conversation of the advance party I had the privilege of hearing these delicious whispers.
Fritz: 'Do you love me?' Elsa: 'Nu—yes.' Fritz passionately: 'But how much?' To which Elsa never replied— except with 'How much do YOU love ME?'
Fritz escaped that truly Christian trap by saying, 'I asked you first.'
It grew so confusing that I slipped in front of Frau Kellermann—and walked in the peaceful knowledge that she was blossoming and I was under no obligation to inform even my nearest and dearest as to the precise capacity of my affections. 'What right have they to ask each other such questions the day after letters of blessing have been received?' I reflected. 'What right have they even to question each other? Love which becomes engaged and married is a purely affirmative affair—they are usurping the privileges of their betters and wisers!'
The edges of the field frilled over into an immense pine forest—very pleasant and cool it looked. Another signpost begged us to keep to the broad path for Schlingen and deposit waste paper and fruit peelings in wire receptacles attached to the benches for the purpose. We sat down on the first bench, and Karl with great curiosity explored the wire receptacle.
'I love woods,' said the Advanced Lady, smiling pitifully into the air. 'In a wood my hair already seems to stir and remember something of its savage origin.'
'But speaking literally,' said Frau Kellermann, after an appreciative pause, 'there is really nothing better than the air of pine-trees for the scalp.'
'Oh, Frau Kellermann, please don't break the spell,' said Elsa.
The Advanced Lady looked at her very sympathetically. 'Have you, too, found the magic heart of Nature?' she said.
That was Herr Langen's cue. 'Nature has no heart,' said he, very bitterly and readily, as people do who are over-philosophised and underfed. 'She creates that she may destroy. She eats that she may spew up and she spews up that she may eat. That is why we, who are forced to eke out an existence at her trampling feet, consider the world mad, and realise the deadly vulgarity of production.'
'Young man,' interrupted Herr Erchardt, 'you have never lived and you have never suffered!'
'Oh, excuse me—how can you know?'
'I know because you have told me, and there's an end of it. Come back to this bench in ten years' time and repeat those words to me,' said Frau Kellermann, with an eye upon Fritz, who was engaged in counting Elsa's fingers with passionate fervour—'and bring with you your young wife, Herr Langen, and watch, perhaps, your little child playing with—' She turned towards Karl, who had rooted an old illustrated paper out of the receptacle and was spelling over an advertisement for the enlargement of Beautiful Breasts.
The sentence remained unfinished. We decided to move on. As we plunged more deeply into the wood our spirits rose—reaching a point where they burst into song—on the part of the three men—'O Welt, wie bist du wunderbar!'—the lower part of which was piercingly sustained by Herr Langen, who attempted quite unsuccessfully to infuse satire into it in accordance with his—'world outlook'. They strode ahead and left us to trail after them— hot and happy.
'Now is the opportunity,' said Frau Kellermann. 'Dear Frau Professor, do tell us a little about your book.'
'Ach, how did you know I was writing one?' she cried playfully.
'Elsa, here, had it from Lisa. And never before have I personally known a woman who was writing a book. How do you manage to find enough to write down?'
'That is never the trouble,' said the Advanced Lady—she took Elsa's arm and leaned on it gently. 'The trouble is to know where to stop. My brain has been a hive for years, and about three months ago the pent-up waters burst over my soul, and since then I am writing all day until late into the night, still ever finding fresh inspirations and thoughts which beat impatient wings about my heart.'
'Is it a novel?' asked Elsa shyly.
'Of course it is a novel,' said I.
'How can you be so positive?' said Frau Kellermann, eyeing me severely.
'Because nothing but a novel could produce an effect like that.'
'Ach, don't quarrel,' said the Advanced Lady sweetly. 'Yes, it is a novel—upon the Modern Woman. For this seems to me the woman's hour. It is mysterious and almost prophetic, it is the symbol of the true advanced woman: not one of those violent creatures who deny their sex and smother their frail wings under... under—'
'The English tailor-made?' from Frau Kellermann.
'I was not going to put it like that. Rather, under the lying garb of false masculinity!'
'Such a subtle distinction!' I murmured.
'Whom then,' asked Fraulein Elsa, looking adoringly at the Advanced Lady—'whom then do you consider the
