“Well, whoever he was, he was a fool,” rejoined the countess.

Marion closed her eyes briefly, wincing in her breast to hear her Savior spoken of so virulently.

Thinking better of herself, the countess added, “Forgive me, Marion. You probably were referring to the baron, and I did not mean to insult him.” There was no remorse in her tone, only decorum. In truth, she would gladly have insulted the baron, for she despised him. She only meant that the dictates of her societal code indicated that she should not do so openly in front of the idiot’s wife, whom, for sake of the past, she would yet pretend to respect.

“It was not my husband I spoke of,” said Marion softly.

“It’s not just working with your servants, Marion,” the countess went on, trying to manufacture a tone of injury but not succeeding altogether in hiding the irritation prompting it. “You used to invite me over. When I came, we would go to your private sitting room or the Gute Stube, or even enjoy cake in the kitchen together. You have become so stiff and formal. The last two visits you have set me down not ten paces from the door as if you don’t want me in your house.” As she spoke, she was wondering how she could ever have imagined her son married to the daughter of such simpletons!

“I’m sorry, Ingrid,” said Marion. “Such was not my intention. I only—”

“And then there was that business with the strangers I saw and your husband lying about them and saying he would invite me for another visit. I tell you, Marion, it would not be difficult for me to take offense. Whatever has been going on around here is—”

“What do you mean?” asked Marion, too quickly. Her nervousness betrayed her, and Ingrid’s skillful ears noted it.

“What do I mean?” repeated the countess as if the question was absurd. “Why, strange visitors and your keeping me from the rest of the house, your husband’s lies—my Gustav has seen strange lights about the place at night. I tell you, Marion, I’m not such an innocent as you may take me for.”

“I’ve never taken you for an innocent, Ingrid.”

“Do you deny that something’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on out of the ordinary, Ingrid,” replied Marion, perspiring again. “You know that Lebenshaus has always been open to all. Sometimes we have had guests we didn’t know who came here for refreshment and to enjoy our garden. Surely you remember, Ingrid, how we feel about sharing what God has given us. I’ve never made any secret of it, and I spoke to you about it years ago.”