Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/497

 well as by preference. It is not my fault that we seldom talk German here since my mother died. From the time my father got his honorable discharge he never talked German except when his former colleagues in the service called on him. When they quit coming, he gave up German altogether. Poor man! Since then my native language has grown pretty rusty. But German I am, and what’s more, Lena, I am proud of it. I can talk your language to you, since you cannot talk mine, or don’t want to—but I shan’t read it to you. I’d sooner do—I don’t know what!

Lena.—But Ernie, why this explosion! I only beg you to read on—in German.

Erna.—I can’t see to read any more—it’s too dark.

Lena (Sadly).—Can’t see. (Sighs.) It’s too dark.

Erna (After slight pause, looking at the table)—You ordered supper for three? I wonder if you really thought that Rudolph would honor his sisters so far as to sup with them this evening? I’m thinking he’d rather spend his evening with some pretty waitress in the servants’ hall. (With a meaningful smile.) Or was it some one else you had in mind, dearie?

Lena (Nervously).—Don’t call me dearie. And don’t call me your little one either. It should be the other way. I ought to pet you—I am the older.

Erna (Knowing cannot see her, speaking with evident scorn).—That’s true. Moreover you are the mistress of Harshaw, the legitimate heiress of Pleisse.

Lena (Feeling the sarcasm).—Indeed, Erna, you are much nicer when you are reading. I am sure you must realize my pitiful state. Day by day I become unhappier. Oh, so unhappy! (With a corner of her handkerchief she wipes her eyes under her green glasses. Evidently they are very tender.) But I must not weep. Tears are poison to my eyes. You know that. (With a new tide of self pity.) And you call me the Mistress of Harshaw! (She rises from the divan and feels her way in direction. Lifting her glasses a little she sees  leaning against the table with her hands behind her back. Approaching, she throws her arms about  neck.) I want love—a little love—or at least sympathy, Erna!

( does not respond. taker her glasses off.) When I take my glasses off this way in the twilight, I can hardly see the portraits on the wall, just barely distinguish them. And you, too, Erna (Peering into her face.) I see your pretty mouth spoiled by a very unbecoming pout of scorn. I know I am an