In time Effi heard about it.  The days when the news would have cheered her were not yet so very far distant.  But in the frame of mind in which she had been since the end of the year she was no longer capable of laughing artlessly and merrily.  Her face had taken on an entirely new expression, and her half-pathetic, half-roguish childishness, which she had preserved as a woman, was gone.  The walks to the beach and the “Plantation,” which she had given up while Crampas was in Stettin, she resumed after his return and would not allow them to be interfered with by unfavorable weather.  It was arranged as formerly that Roswitha should come to meet her at the end of the ropewalk, or near the churchyard, but they missed each other oftener than before.  “I could scold you, Roswitha, for never finding me.  But it doesn’t matter; I am no longer afraid, not even by the churchyard, and in the forest I have never yet met a human soul.”

It was on the day before Innstetten’s return from Berlin that Effi said this.  Roswitha paid little attention to the remarks, as she was absorbed in hanging up garlands over the doors.  Even the shark was decorated with a fir bough and looked more remarkable than usual.  Effi said:  “That is right, Roswitha.  He will be pleased with all the green when he comes back tomorrow.  I wonder whether I should go out again today?  Dr. Hannemann insists upon it and is continually saying I do not take it seriously enough, otherwise I should certainly be looking better.  But I have no real desire today; it is drizzling and the sky is so gray.”

“I will fetch her Ladyship’s raincoat.”

“Do so, but don’t come for me today; we should not meet anyhow,” and she laughed.  “Really, Roswitha, you are not a bit good at finding.  And I don’t want to have you catch a cold all for nothing.”

So Roswitha remained at home and, as Annie was sleeping, went over to chat with Mrs. Kruse.  “Dear Mrs. Kruse,” she said, “you were going to tell me about the Chinaman.  Yesterday Johanna interrupted you.  She always puts on such airs, and such a story would not interest her.  But I believe there was, after all, something in it, I mean the story of the Chinaman and Thomsen’s niece, if she was not his granddaughter.”

Mrs. Kruse nodded.

Roswitha continued:  “Either it was an unhappy love”—­Mrs. Kruse nodded again—­“or it may have been a happy one, and the Chinaman was simply unable to endure the sudden termination of it.  For the Chinese are human, like the rest of us, and everything is doubtless the same with them as with us.”

“Everything,” assured Mrs. Kruse, who was about to corroborate it by her story, when her husband entered and said:  “Mother, you might give me the bottle of leather varnish.  I must have the harness shining when his Lordship comes home tomorrow.  He sees everything, and even if he says nothing, one can tell that he has seen it all.”

“I’ll bring it out to you, Kruse,” said Roswitha.  “Your wife is just going to tell me something more; but it will soon be finished and then I’ll come and bring it.”