to tell her—­how much he had to tell her, when he was alone, and how well he knew how to say it; and if chance ordained that he met her alone (it was wonderful how busy chance seemed to be in arranging such meetings) the thought that now the moment had come drove all the blood to his heart, the words from his tongue back into their hiding-place in the depths of his soul.  Thus it had been when, her cheeks still glowing from the dance, she had come out of the house alone.  She seemed to be concerned only with getting cool; she fanned herself with her white scarf, but her cheeks only grew the redder.  He felt that she had seen him, that she expected him to come nearer; and it was the knowledge that he understood her that dyed her cheeks redder—­that drove her, as he hesitated, back again into the hall.  Perhaps, too, she had heard a third person coming.  His brother came out of another door of the hall.  He had seen the two standing silently opposite each other, perhaps had also seen the girl’s blush.  “Are you looking for Beate?” asked our hero to hide his embarrassment.  “No,” answered his brother, “she is not at the dance—­and it’s just as well.  Nothing can come of it, after all; I must get another—­and until I find one, Bohemian beer is my sweetheart.”

There was something wild in his brother’s speech.  Our hero looked at him amazed and at the same time disturbed.  “Why can nothing come of it?” he asked.  “And what is the matter with you?”

“Oh, yes, you think I ought to be like you, pious and patient so long as there is no thread on your coat.  But I am another kind of fellow, and if anybody upsets my calculations I have to let off steam.  Why can nothing come of it?  Because the old man in the blue coat won’t have it.”

“Father called you into the little garden yesterday—­”

“Yes, and raised his white eyebrows, which are drawn with a ruler, an inch and a half.  ’I thought it was so.  You are going with Beate, the collector’s daughter.  That comes to an end today!’”

“Is it possible?  And why?”

“Did you ever know old Blue-coat to give any ‘why’?  And did you ever ask him ‘But why, father?’ He didn’t say so, but I know why it has to come to an end with me and Beate.  I’ve been expecting it the whole week; whenever he raised his hand I thought he was pointing to the little garden and was ready to follow him like a poor sinner.  That is the place where he gives his cabinet orders.  The collector is said not to be in very good circumstances.  There is some gossip about his spending more than his pay.  And—­well, you are a quill-driver, too, like old Blue-coat.  But what can the girl do?  Or I?  Well, the affair must stop—­but I’m sorry about the girl, and I must see how I can forget her.  I must drink or get another one.”