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ing that she remain quiet, take plenty of rest, and be very careful of herself. So that when she did not have to be lying down, she would sit quietly near the Rätin Spatz, with some needle-work forgotten in her lap, and thinking of something or other.

Yes, he had set her to thinking . . . this strange Herr Spinell. But the remarkable thing was that she didn't think so much of him as of herself. Somehow or other, he had created in her an unusual curiosity, an interest she had never felt before, in her own person.

One day, in the course of a conversation, he had said, "No, they are puzzling things, women are. As old as the question is, you can't help considering it in astonishment. Some wonderful creature, a nymph, a vision, a being out of some fairy dream. And what does she do? Goes off and surrenders herself to some champion at a country fair, or some butcher’s boy. She comes along on his arm, perhaps even leans her head against his shoulder, and looks about her with a sly smile, as if to say, 'Now then, you can go break your hearts about it!' And we do go and break our hearts."

While he was saying this, Herr Klöterjahn's wife had been very occupied.

Another day, to the great astonishment of the Rätin Spatz, the following dialogue took place between them:

"I wonder if I might dare to ask you—although it is very impertinent—what your name is, your true name?"

"Why, my name is Klöterjahn, Herr Spinell!"

"Hm. I knew that. Or rather, I challenge it. For, of course, I mean your real name, your maiden name. You will be just enough to grant me, I hope, that any one who would address you as 'Frau Klöterjahn' would deserved to be thrashed."

She laughed so heartily that the tiny blue vein over her eyebrow stood out with painful clarity, and gave her sweet, tender face an expression of effort and fatigue which was deeply disquieting.

"No! Surely not, Herr Spinell. To be thrashed? Does 'Klöterjahn' seem so awful to you?"

"Yes, I have hated this name from the bottom of my heart from the moment I first heard it. It is farcical, and frightfully homely; and it would be cruel and abject if one were to carry the accepted usage so far as to apply your husband's name to you."

"Well, and 'Eckhof'? Is 'Eckhof' better? My father's name is 'Eckhof.""

"Ah, just see! 'Eckhof' is something quite different. 'Eckhof'