Four of the Daily Dinner Guests are men, and one of the boarders is a man; and these five men and Frau Berg were the vociferous ones.  They exclaimed things like “Nein, so was!” and, “Diese englische Hochmut!” and single words like unerhort; and then one of them called Herr Doctor Krummlaut, who is a lawyer and a widower and much esteemed by the rest, detached himself from them and made me a carefully patient speech, in which he said how sorry they all were to see so young and gifted a lady,—­(he bowed, and I bowed)—­oh yes, he said, raising his hand as though to ward off any modest objections I might be going to make, only I wasn’t going to make any, he had heard that I was undoubtedly gifted, and not only gifted but also, he would not be deterred from saying, and he felt sure his colleagues at the table would not be deterred from saying either if they were in his place, a lady of personal attractions,—­(he bowed and I bowed,)—­how sorry they all were to see a young Fraulein with these advantages, filled at the same time with opinions and views that were not only highly unsuitable to her sex but were also, in any sex, so terribly wrong.  Every lady, he said, should have some knowledge of history, and sufficient acquaintance with the three kinds of politics,—­Politik, Weltpolitik, and Realpolitik, to enable her to avoid wrong and frivolous conclusions such as the one the young Fraulein had just informed them she had reached, and to listen intelligently to her husband or son when they discuss these matters.  He said a great deal more, about a woman knowing these things just enough but not too well, for her intelligence must not be strained because of her supreme function of being the cradle of the race; and the cradle part of her, I gather, isn’t so useful if she is allowed to develop the other part of her beyond what is necessary for making an agreeable listener.

It was no use even trying to explain what I had meant about Germany really being in love with England, because I hadn’t got words enough; but that is exactly the impression I’ve received from my brief experiences of one corner of its life.  In this small corner of it, anyhow, it behaves exactly like a woman who is so unlucky as to love somebody who doesn’t care about her.  She naturally, I imagine,—­for I can only guess at these enslavements,—­is very much humiliated and angry, and all the more because the loved and hated one—­isn’t it possible to love and hate at the same time, little mother?  I can imagine it quite well—­is so indifferent as to whether she loves or hates.  And whichever she does, he is polite,—­“Always gentleman,” as the Germans say.  Which is, naturally, maddening.

  Evening.

Do you know I wrote to you the whole morning?  I wrote and wrote, with no idea how time was passing, and was astonished and indignant, for I haven’t half told you all I want to, when I was called to dinner.  It seemed like shutting a door on you and leaving you outside without any dinner, to go away and have it without you.