But he consoled himself
by reflecting that he did not need the money; and he consoled Mrs. March
for their failure to penetrate to the interior of the Rothschilds'
birthplace by taking her to see the house where Goethe was born. The
public is apparently much more expected there, and in the friendly place
they were no doubt much more welcome than they would have been in the
Rothschild house. Under that roof they renewed a happy moment of Weimar,
which after the lapse of a week seemed already so remote. They wondered,
as they mounted the stairs from the basement opening into a clean little
court, how Burnamy was getting on, and whether it had yet come to that
understanding between him and Agatha, which Mrs. March, at least, had
meant to be inevitable. Then they became part of some such sight-seeing
retinue as followed the custodian about in the Goethe horse in Weimar,
and of an emotion indistinguishable from that of their fellow
sight-seers. They could make sure, afterwards, of a personal pleasure in
a certain prescient classicism of the house. It somehow recalled both the
Goethe houses at Weimar, and it somehow recalled Italy. It is a separate
house of two floors above the entrance, which opens to a little court or
yard, and gives access by a decent stairway to the living-rooms.
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