one point, To whom should he make his proposal?  To Frau Brohl?  That would be the most practicable way, no doubt, as the bent, pale old lady, with the soft, sighing voice, ruled everything in the house, and if she promised the hand of her grand-daughter, she would certainly keep her word.  But it went against the grain to put any constraint on the girl, and he felt that he would be ashamed to answer “No,” if Frau Brohl were to ask him if he had already spoken to Malvine.  Then if he were to go in a straightforward way to Malvine, and say, “I can no longer hide from you that I love you, and that I want you to be my wife, will you consent?” there was a great deal of risk in that, for if she misjudged her own feelings, and said that she loved some one else, and so could not listen to him, the rupture between them would be accomplished, and it would be no use to him if later she found out that she had been mistaken in her feelings.  There could be no secure step for him, on that he was quite decided.

If he could approach neither Frau Brohl nor Malvine, there was one way clearly open to him, and he took it without further delay.

One sunny afternoon in May, a few weeks after the Labor meeting at the Tivoli, Paul came to see Wilhelm, and asked him to go for a walk with him in the Thiergarten.  Wilhelm was soon ready, and while they were walking Paul was astonishingly quiet, and seemed sunk in deep thought.  He suddenly broke the silence, and when they were under the trees, without any beating about the bush, asked his friend: 

“Wilhelm, do you love Malvine?”

Wilhelm stood still, as if rooted to the ground, and in boundless astonishment he said: 

“Are you off your head, Paul?”

“I implore you, Wilhelm,” said he in an anxious way, “just answer ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ because the happiness of my life depends on your answer.”

“But I never thought of it,” cried Wilhelm, grasping Paul’s hand.  “What put such an idea into your head?”

“Then you are not in love with Malvine?” asked Paul obstinately.

“No, I am not in love with Malvine, if you will have the answer in that precise form.”

“I thought as much, but I wished to have the answer from your own lips;” and as they walked, he continued, “Do you see, Wilhelm, if you had loved Malvine, I would have got out of your way; I would have submitted to fate without any struggle or opposition.”

“Have I been injudicious?  Perhaps too intimate?  Forgive me, Paul, if it is so.  It happened quite unintentionally.  I only thought of her as my friend’s fiancee, and believed her also to be a friend of mine.”

“I don’t mean that, Wilhelm; you have always behaved awfully well—­ with great tact, and all that.  But you have not seen how it has been with Malvine; she is quite mad about you, especially since you have been free.”

“You imagine these things.”

“Be quiet, you impatient baby, and hear what I have to say.  I believe it is not love Malvine has for you, but it only wants a word or a look from you to turn it into love.  If she were convinced that you feel only as a friend for her, she would be contented to admire you from a distance, and begin to care a little more for an inferior specimen of mankind like myself.”