had looked at Princess Heinrich, she gave a sudden frightened sob, rushed across the room, and flung herself on her knees at my feet.
"You're the king!" she cried. "Protect me, protect me!"
Throughout all this very painful interview I seemed to hear as it were echoes of the romances which I had read on Victoria's recommendation; the reminiscence was particularly strong in this last exclamation. However, it is not safe to conclude that feelings are not sincere because they are expressed in conventional phrases. These formulas are moulds into which our words run easily; though the moulds be hollow, the stuff that fills them may be solid enough.
"Why, you don't want to marry him?" I exclaimed, much embarrassed at being prematurely forced into functions of a père de famille.
"I'll never marry anybody else," moaned Victoria. My mother's face was the picture of disgust and scorn.
"That's another thing," said she. "At least the King would not hear of such a marriage as this."
"Do you want to marry him?" I asked Victoria, chiefly, I confess, in curiosity. I had risen—or fallen—in some degree to my position, and it seemed strange to me that my sister should wish to marry this Baron Fritz.
"I—I love him, Augustin," groaned Victoria.
"She knows it's impossible, as well as you do," said my mother. "She doesn't really want to do it."
Victoria cried quietly, but made no reply or protest. I was bewildered; I did not understand then how we may passionately desire a thing which we
