This proved to be true.  Effi got better, gained a little in weight (old von Briest belonged to the weight fanatics), and lost much of her irritability.  But her need of fresh air kept growing steadily, and even when the west wind blew and the sky was overcast with gray clouds, she spent many hours out of doors.  On such days she would usually go out into the fields or the marsh, often as far as two miles, and when she grew tired would sit down on the hurdle fence, where, lost in dreams, she would watch the ranunculi and red sorrel waving in the wind.

“You go out so much alone,” said Mrs. von Briest.  “Among our people you are safe, but there are so many strange vagabonds prowling around.”

That made an impression on Effi, who had never thought of danger, and when she was alone with Roswitha, she said:  “I can’t well take you with me, Roswitha; you are too fat and no longer sure-footed.”

“Oh, your Ladyship, it is hardly yet as bad as that.  Why, I could still be married.”

“Of course,” laughed Effi.  “One is never too old for that.  But let me tell you, Roswitha, if I had a dog to accompany me—­Papa’s hunting dog has no attachment for me—­hunting dogs are so stupid—­and he never stirs till the hunter or the gardener takes the gun from the rack.  I often have to think of Rollo.”

“True,” said Roswitha, “they have nothing like Rollo here.  But I don’t mean anything against ‘here.’  Hohen-Cremmen is very good.”

Three or four days after this conversation between Effi and Roswitha, Innstetten entered his office an hour earlier than usual.  The morning sun, which shone very brightly, had wakened him and as he had doubtless felt he could not go to sleep again he had got out of bed to take up a piece of work that had long been waiting to be attended to.

At a quarter past eight he rang.  Johanna brought the breakfast tray, on which, beside the morning papers, there were two letters.  He glanced at the addresses and recognized by the handwriting that one was from the minister.  But the other?  The postmark could not be read plainly and the address, “Baron von Innstetten, Esq.,” showed a happy lack of familiarity with the customary use of titles.  In keeping with this was the very primitive character of the writing.  But the address was remarkably accurate:  “W., Keith St. 1c, third story.”

Innstetten was enough of an official to open first the letter from “His Excellency.”  “My dear Innstetten:  I am happy to be able to announce to you that His Majesty has deigned to sign your appointment and I congratulate you sincerely.”  Innstetten was pleased at the friendly lines from the minister, almost more than at the appointment itself, for, since the morning in Kessin, when Crampas had bidden him farewell with that look which still haunted him, he had grown somewhat sceptical of such things as climbing higher on the ladder.  Since then he had measured with a different measure and