"Hush, hush, shut thy little eyes," soothed the mother, putting her
hand over them. To Priscilla she said, with an obvious dawning of
distrust, "But Fräulein, what reason can you have for hiding
yourself?"

"Hiding myself?" echoed Priscilla, now very unhappy indeed, "I'm not
hiding myself. I've got--I've got--I'm afraid I've got a--an affection
of the skin. That's why I wear a veil."

"_Ach_, poor Fräulein," said the mother, brightening at once into
lively interest. "Hans-Joachim, sleep," she added sharply to her son,
who tried to raise his head to interrupt with fresh doubts a
conversation grown thrilling. "That is indeed a misfortune. It is a
rash?"

"Oh, it's dreadful," said Priscilla, faintly.

"_Ach_, poor Fräulein. When one is married, rashes no longer matter.
One's husband has to love one in spite of rashes. But for a Fräulein
every spot is of importance. There is a young lady of my acquaintance
whose life-happiness was shipwrecked only by spots. She came out in
them at the wrong moment."

"Did she?" murmured Priscilla.

"You are going to a doctor?"

"Yes--that is, no--I've been."

"Ah, you have been to Kunitz to Dr. Kraus?"