I did not intend to share a truth while crying over spilt milk for Miss Pimperl. Certainly, a part of my distress was the fear of saying goodbye to Mama for such a very long time - three months in Mannheim, six days for a letter to arrive by post and who knows, Paris after that. But there was something else which vexed me when I was not thinking about my life as an orphan. I could not understand why the Count had gone so abruptly out of the room when we returned from our sleigh ride - or why he picked up the copy of Voltaire's jottings from Papa's desk and put it in his pocket as he left. Had his passion for me waned so quickly that he needed to fill his head with twaddle from that godless dog? Was my conversation no more required? Did he feel his own want of philosophy? Did he not wish to eat cake that was still warm and smelt of honey? Mysteries which must explain themselves are not worth the loss of time it takes to conjecture about them. I shall play duets with Wolfgangus the horrible instead. Tempo piu moderato or make a mess in my bed. N.