the superlatively educated German girl when they had chanced to meet and
talk at children's picnics at Bar Harbor, or when the triumphant young
beauty ran up to the nursery in town to bring a message to the little
Bolands from her sisters. It was true that hers was not the seductive
type of beauty, that her large gray eyes were cool and appraising, her
fine skin quite without color, and her soft abundant hair little darker
than Franz's own, but she could be feminine and charming when she chose
and she would be a wife in whom even a German would experience a secret
and swelling pride.

What chance had she--she--Gisela Döring?

There were days and weeks, during that second winter, when she was
tormented by a sort of sub-hysteria, a stifled voice in the region of
her heart threatening to force its way out and shriek. There were times
when she gave way to despair, and thought of her vigorous youth with a
shudder, and at other times she was so angry and humiliated at her
surrender and secret chaos, that she was on the point more than once of
breaking definitely with Franz Nettelbeck, or even of going back to
Germany. If he missed a Wednesday, or failed to write, she slipped out
of the house at night and paced Central Park for hours, fighting her
rebellious nerves with her pride and the strong independent will that
she had believed would enable her to leap lightly over every pitfall in
life.

Then he would come and her spirits would soar, her whole awakened being
possessed by a sort of reckless fury, a desperate resolve to enjoy the
meager portion of happiness allotted to her by an always grudging fate;
and for a few days after he left she would give herself up to blissful
and extravagant dreams.