Effi laughed more heartily than she had for a long time.  But the mood was of short duration and when Innstetten went away and left her alone she sat down by the baby’s cradle, and tears fell on the pillows.  The old feeling came over her again that she was a prisoner without hope of escape.

She suffered intensely from the feeling and longed more than ever for liberty.  But while she was capable of strong emotions she had not a strong character.  She lacked steadfastness and her good desires soon passed away.  Thus she drifted on, one day, because she could not help it, the next, because she did not care to try to help it.  She seemed to be in the power of the forbidden and the mysterious.

So it came about that she, who by nature was frank and open, accustomed herself more and more to play an underhand part.  At times she was startled at the ease with which she could do it.  Only in one respect she remained unchanged—­she saw everything clearly and glossed nothing.  Late one evening she stepped before the mirror in her bedroom.  The lights and shadows flitted to and fro and Rollo began to bark outside.  That moment it seemed to her as though somebody were looking over her shoulder.  But she quickly bethought herself.  “I know well enough what it is.  It was not he,” and she pointed her finger toward the haunted room upstairs.  “It was something else—­my conscience—­Effi, you are lost.”

Yet things continued on this course; the ball was rolling, and what happened one day made the actions of the next a necessity.

About the middle of the month there came invitations from the four families with which the Innstettens associated most.  They had agreed upon the order in which they would entertain.  The Borckes were to begin, the Flemmings and Grasenabbs followed, the Gueldenklees came last.  Each time a week intervened.  All four invitations came on the same day.  They were evidently intended to leave an impression of orderliness and careful planning, and probably also of special friendliness and congeniality.

“I shall not go, Geert, and you must excuse me in advance on the ground of the treatment which I have been undergoing for weeks past.”

Innstetten laughed.  “Treatment.  I am to blame it on the treatment.  That is the pretext.  The real reason is you don’t care to.”

“No, I am more honest than you are willing to admit.  It was your own suggestion that I consult the doctor.  I did so and now I must follow his advice.  The good doctor thinks I am anaemic, strangely enough, and you know that I drink chalybeate water every day.  If you combine this in imagination with a dinner at the Borckes’, with, say, brawn and eel aspic, you can’t help feeling that it would be the death of me.  And certainly you would not think of asking such a thing of your Effi.  To be sure, I feel at times—­”

“I beg you, Effi.”

“However, the one good thing about it is that I can look forward with pleasure to accompanying you each time a part of the way in the carriage, as far as the mill, certainly, or the churchyard, or even to the corner of the forest, where the crossroad to Morgnitz comes in.  Then I can alight and saunter back.  It is always very beautiful among the dunes.”