“I have been thinking it over, Effi,” said Innstetten, “you are not entirely wrong in all you have said against our house here.  For Captain Thomsen it was quite good enough, but not for a spoiled young wife.  Everything old-fashioned and no room.  You shall have a better house in Berlin, with a dining hall, but different from the one here, and in the hall and on the stairway colored-glass windows, Emperor William with sceptre and crown, or some religious picture, a St. Elizabeth or a Virgin Mary.  Let us say a Virgin Mary; we owe that to Roswitha.”

Effi laughed.  “So shall it be.  But who will select an apartment for us?  I couldn’t think of sending Cousin von Briest to look for one, to say nothing of my aunts.  They would consider anything good enough.”

“When it comes to selecting an apartment, nobody can do that to the satisfaction of any one else.  I think you will have to go yourself.”

“And when do you think?”

“The middle of March.”

“Oh, that is much too late, Geert; everything will be gone then.  The good apartments will hardly wait for us.”

“All right.  But it was only yesterday that I came home and I can’t well say:  ‘go tomorrow.’  That would not look right and it would not suit me very well either.  I am happy to have you with me once more.”

“No,” she said, as she gathered together the breakfast dishes rather noisily to hide a rising embarrassment, “no, and it shall not be either, neither today nor tomorrow, but before very long, however.  And if I find anything I shall soon be back again.  But one thing more, Roswitha and Annie must go with me.  It would please me most if you went too.  But, I see, that is out of the question.  And I think the separation will not last long.  I already know, too, where I shall rent.”

“Where?”

“That must remain my secret.  I want to have a secret myself.  I want to surprise you later.”

At this point Frederick entered to bring the mail.  The most of the pieces were official and newspapers.  “Ah, there is also a letter for you,” said Innstetten.  “And, if I am not mistaken, mama’s handwriting.”

Effi took the letter.  “Yes, from mama.  But that is not the Friesack postmark.  Just see, why, it is plainly Berlin.”

“Certainly,” laughed Innstetten.  “You act as though it were a miracle.  Mama is doubtless in Berlin and has written her darling a letter from her hotel.”

“Yes,” said Effi, “that is probably it.  But I almost have fears, and can find no real consolation in what Hulda Niemeyer always said:  that when one has fears it is better than when one has hopes.  What do you think about it?”

“For a pastor’s daughter not quite up to the standard.  But now read the letter.  Here is a paper knife.”