Philip soon learned the various interests of the household.  Fraulein Thekla, the professor’s elder daughter, was engaged to a man in England who had spent twelve months in the house to learn German, and their marriage was to take place at the end of the year.  But the young man wrote that his father, an india-rubber merchant who lived in Slough, did not approve of the union, and Fraulein Thekla was often in tears.  Sometimes she and her mother might be seen, with stern eyes and determined mouths, looking over the letters of the reluctant lover.  Thekla painted in water colour, and occasionally she and Philip, with another of the girls to keep them company, would go out and paint little pictures.  The pretty Fraulein Hedwig had amorous troubles too.  She was the daughter of a merchant in Berlin and a dashing hussar had fallen in love with her, a von if you please:  but his parents opposed a marriage with a person of her condition, and she had been sent to Heidelberg to forget him.  She could never, never do this, and corresponded with him continually, and he was making every effort to induce an exasperating father to change his mind.  She told all this to Philip with pretty sighs and becoming blushes, and showed him the photograph of the gay lieutenant.  Philip liked her best of all the girls at the Frau Professor’s, and on their walks always tried to get by her side.  He blushed a great deal when the others chaffed him for his obvious preference.  He made the first declaration in his life to Fraulein Hedwig, but unfortunately it was an accident, and it happened in this manner.  In the evenings when they did not go out, the young women sang little songs in the green velvet drawing-room, while Fraulein Anna, who always made herself useful, industriously accompanied.  Fraulein Hedwig’s favourite song was called Ich liebe dich, I love you; and one evening after she had sung this, when Philip was standing with her on the balcony, looking at the stars, it occurred to him to make some remark about it.  He began: 

“Ich liebe dich.”

His German was halting, and he looked about for the word he wanted.  The pause was infinitesimal, but before he could go on Fraulein Hedwig said: 

“Ach, Herr Carey, Sie mussen mir nicht du sagen—­you mustn’t talk to me in the second person singular.”

Philip felt himself grow hot all over, for he would never have dared to do anything so familiar, and he could think of nothing on earth to say.  It would be ungallant to explain that he was not making an observation, but merely mentioning the title of a song.

“Entschuldigen Sie,” he said.  “I beg your pardon.”

“It does not matter,” she whispered.

She smiled pleasantly, quietly took his hand and pressed it, then turned back into the drawing-room.

Next day he was so embarrassed that he could not speak to her, and in his shyness did all that was possible to avoid her.  When he was asked to go for the usual walk he refused because, he said, he had work to do.  But Fraulein Hedwig seized an opportunity to speak to him alone.