Hilda's, which was not so easily explained, and the coincidence was
oddly in harmony with the oppressive constraint that had reigned at
Greifenstein during the vacation. Greif could not help thinking very
seriously of it all, as he drove rapidly through the forest to the
railway station; so seriously indeed, that he at last shook himself
with a movement of impatience, said to himself that he was growing
superstitious as a girl, and lit a cigar with the strong determination
not to give way to such nonsense.

Smoking did not help him, nor the prospect of meeting a fellow-student
or two in the course of the afternoon. He tried to think of the life
that was before him at the University, of the serious work he must do,
of the opening festival of all the united Korps at the beginning of the
term, of his own responsibilities as the head of the association to
which he belonged, of the pleasant hours he would spend in discussing
with youthful shallowness the deepest subjects that can occupy the
human mind, deciding, between a draft of brown ale and a whiff of
tobacco, that Schopenhauer was right in one point, and that Kant was
wrong in another. But, for the present, at least, none of those things
could by mere anticipation distract his thoughts from the matter which
occupied them.

All through the long drive, Hilda's face was before him and her voice
was in his ear, repeating her strange warning. She had said that she
should always love him. His mother had implored him not to forsake her
in her trouble, whatever it might be. At the same time, his father was
in the greatest anxiety concerning Rieseneck's movements. Could there
be any connexion between that affair and the conduct of the two women?
Again his common sense rose up with an energetic protest, and displayed
to him all the absurdity of the hypothesis. Could Rieseneck's possible