That was the result, so to speak, which the first walk around through the house accomplished.  Effi then made her toilette, but not so quickly as Innstetten had supposed, and now she was sitting in her husband’s room, turning her thoughts first to the little Chinaman upstairs, then to Gieshuebler, who still did not come.  To be sure, a quarter of an hour before, a stoop-shouldered and almost deformed little gentleman in an elegant short fur coat and a very smooth-brushed silk hat, too tall for his proportions, had walked past on the other side of the street and had glanced over at her window.  But that could hardly have been Gieshuebler.  No, this stoop-shouldered man, who had such a distinguished air about him, must have been the presiding judge, and she recalled then that she had once seen such a person at a reception given by Aunt Therese, but it suddenly occurred to her that Kessin had only a lower court judge.

While she was still following out this chain of thought the object of her reflections, who had apparently been taking a morning stroll, or perhaps a promenade around the “Plantation” to bolster up his courage, came in sight again, and a minute later Frederick entered to announce Apothecary Gieshuebler.

“Ask him kindly to come in.”

The poor young wife’s heart fluttered, for it was the first time that she had to appear as a housewife, to say nothing of the first woman of the city.

Frederick helped Gieshuebler take off his fur coat and then opened the door.

Effi extended her hand to the timidly entering caller, who kissed it with a certain amount of fervor.  The young wife seemed to have made a great impression upon him immediately.

“My husband has already told me—­But I am receiving you here in my husband’s room,—­he is over at the office and may be back any moment.  May I ask you to step into my room?”

Gieshuebler followed Effi, who led the way into the adjoining room, where she pointed to one of the arm chairs, as she herself sat down on the sofa.  “I wish I could tell you what a great pleasure it was yesterday to receive the beautiful flowers with your card.  I straightway ceased to feel myself a stranger here and when I mentioned the fact to Innstetten he told me we should unquestionably be good friends.”

“Did he say that?  The good councillor.  In the councillor and you, most gracious Lady,—­I beg your permission to say it—­two dear people have been united.  For what kind of a man your husband is, I know, and what kind of a woman you are, most gracious Lady, I see.”

“Provided only you do not look at me with too friendly eyes.  I am so very young.  And youth—­”

“Ah, most gracious Lady, say nothing against youth.  Youth, even with all its mistakes, is still beautiful and lovable, and age, even with its virtues, is not good for much.  Personally I have, it is true, no right to say anything about this subject.  About age I might have, perhaps, but not about youth, for, to be frank, I was never young.  Persons with my misfortune are never young.  That, it may as well be said, is the saddest feature of the case.  One has no true spirit, one has no self-confidence, one hardly ventures to ask a lady for the honor of a dance, because one does not desire to cause her an embarrassment, and thus the years go by and one grows old, and life has been poor and empty.”