time, as though anticipating some nervous movement on his part at the
sound of her voice. The dog stirred uneasily and uttered a feeble
little growl, turned round on her lap, bit his tail, and then settled
himself to rest again. The lady watched all these movements with
anxious interest, smoothing the folds of her dress at the spot on which
the beast was about to lay his head.

'Ah! my beloved, my treasure!' she murmured in a strident whisper. 'Did
I wake you! Dear, dear Pretzel! Do go to sleep! I call him Pretzel,'
she added, looking up with a wild smile, 'because when he is curled up,
with his little legs together, on his side, he is just the shape of
those little twisted rolls my husband likes with his beer. It is a
vulgar name, yes--but this is a vulgar age, dear cousin, you know, and
we must not be behind our times!'

'Is it?' asked Frau von Sigmundskron without taking her eyes from her
work.

'Oh, dreadfully so! Is it not, Hugo? I am sure I have heard you say
so.'

'Without doubt, the times are changed,' replied Greifenstein. 'But I
suppose that what is modern will always seem vulgar to old-fashioned
people.'

'Ah, you do not call me old-fashioned, dear husband? Do you? Really, if
I am old-fashioned, the times must have advanced very, very quickly!
Eh? Dearest cousin, he calls us old-fashioned! You and me! Aber nein!
How is it possible!'