“Did you ever,” said Priscilla, temporizing, “try him with a little—­just a little slap?  Only a little one,” she added hastily, for the mother looked at her oddly, “only as a sort of counter-irritant.  And it needn’t be really hard, you know—­”

“Ach, she’s a witch—­Mutti, she’s a witch!” shrieked the child, flinging his face, butter and all, at these portentous words, into his mother’s lap.

“There, there, poor tiny one,” soothed the mother, with an indignant side-glance at Priscilla.  “Poor tiny man, no one shall slap thee.  The Fraeulein does not allude to thee, little son.  The Fraeulein is thinking of bad children such as the sons of Schultz and thy cousin Meyer.  Fraeulein, if you do not remove your veil I fear he will have convulsions.”

“Oh,” said the unhappy Priscilla, getting as far into her corner as she could, “I’m so sorry—­but I—­but I really can’t.”

“She’s a witch, Mutti!” roared the child, “I tell it to thee again—­therefore is she so black, and must not show her face!”

“Hush, hush, shut thy little eyes,” soothed the mother, putting her hand over them.  To Priscilla she said, with an obvious dawning of distrust, “But Fraeulein, what reason can you have for hiding yourself?”

“Hiding myself?” echoed Priscilla, now very unhappy indeed, “I’m not hiding myself.  I’ve got—­I’ve got—­I’m afraid I’ve got a—­an affection of the skin.  That’s why I wear a veil.”

“Ach, poor Fraeulein,” said the mother, brightening at once into lively interest.  “Hans-Joachim, sleep,” she added sharply to her son, who tried to raise his head to interrupt with fresh doubts a conversation grown thrilling.  “That is indeed a misfortune.  It is a rash?”

“Oh, it’s dreadful,” said Priscilla, faintly.

“Ach, poor Fraeulein.  When one is married, rashes no longer matter.  One’s husband has to love one in spite of rashes.  But for a Fraeulein every spot is of importance.  There is a young lady of my acquaintance whose life-happiness was shipwrecked only by spots.  She came out in them at the wrong moment.”

“Did she?” murmured Priscilla.

“You are going to a doctor?”

“Yes—­that is, no—­I’ve been.”

“Ah, you have been to Kunitz to Dr. Kraus?”

“Y—­es.  I’ve been there.”

“What does he say?”

“That I must always wear a veil.”

“Because it looks so bad?”

“I suppose so.”

There was a silence.  Priscilla lay back in her corner exhausted, and shut her eyes.  The mother stared fixedly at her, one hand mechanically stroking Hans-Joachim, the other holding him down.

“When I was a girl,” said the mother, so suddenly that Priscilla started, “I had a good deal of trouble with my skin.  Therefore my experience on the subject is great.  Show me your face, Fraeulein—­I might be able to tell you what to do to cure it.”

“Oh, on no account—­on no account whatever,” cried Priscilla, sitting up very straight and speaking with extraordinary emphasis.  “I couldn’t think of it—­I really positively couldn’t.”