“She must suffer:  so do all;” she would undoubtedly have a hard future, no matter to which of these men who were so absurd about her, Fate finally accorded her:  hard, if she married Richard without loving him (nobody knew better than Sophie how hard that sort of marriage was); hard, if she married the German, to suffer a lifetime of poverty and ill-temper and jealous fury.  But about all that, Sophie did not care a straw.  She knew how much women could live through, and it seemed to be their business to be wretched.

But this man!  And she could not gain anything by what he suffered, with his dangerous nature, his ungovernable jealousy, his possibly involved and unknown antecedents; what was to become of him, in case he could not have this girl of whom six weeks ago he had not heard?  A pretty candidate to present to “mon oncle” of the Wall-street office, for the hand of the young lady trusted to their hospitality—­a very pretty candidate—­a German tutor—­who could sing.  If he took her, it was to be feared he would have to take her without more dowry than some very heavy imprecations.  But could he take her, even thus?  Sophie had some very strange misgivings.  This man was desperately unhappy:  was suffering frightfully:  it made her heart ache to see the haggard lines deepening on his face, to see his colorless lips and restless eyes.  She was sorry for him, as a woman is apt to be sorry for a fascinating man.  And then she was frightened, for he was “no carpet knight so trim,” to whom cognac, and cigars, and time would be a balm:  this man was essentially dramatic, a dangerous character, an article with which she was unfamiliar.  He was frantic about this silly girl:  that was plain to see.  Why then was he so wretched, seeing she was as irrationally in love with him?

“If it only comes out right,” she sighed distrustfully many times a day.  She resolved never to interfere with anything again, but it came rather late, seeing she probably had done the greatest mischief that she ever would be permitted to have a hand in while she lived.  She made up her mind not to think anything about it, but, unfortunately for that plan, she could not get out of sight of her work.  If she had been a man, she would probably have gone to the Adirondacks.  But being a woman she had to stay at home, and sit down among the tangled skeins which she had not skill to straighten.

“If it only comes out right,” she sighed again, the evening of that most uncomfortable drive, “If it only comes out right.”  But it did not look much like it.

I had gone directly in to tea, and so had Richard.  Richard’s face silenced and depressed everybody at the table; and Mr. Langenau did not come.

“There is going to be a terrible shower,” said some one, and before the sentence was ended, there was a vivid flash of lightning that made the candles pale.

“How rapidly it has come up,” said Sophie.  “Was the sky black when you came in, Richard?”