I began to wonder as to the nature of these quiet little after-supper
talks. How could one play Delilah to so shorn a Samson?

"Herr Hoffmann from Berlin arrived yesterday," said the Herr Rat.

"That young man I refuse to converse with. He told me last year that he
had stayed in France in an hotel where they did not have serviettes; what a
place it must have been! In Austria even the cabmen have serviettes. Also
I have heard that he discussed 'free love' with Bertha as she was sweeping
his room. I am not accustomed to such company. I had suspected him for a
long time."

"Young blood," answered the Herr Rat genially. "I have had several
disputes with him--you have heard them--is it not so?" turning to me.

"A great many," I said, smiling.

"Doubtless you too consider me behind the times. I make no secret of my
age; I am sixty-nine; but you must have surely observed how impossible it
was for him to speak at all when I raised my voice."

I replied with the utmost conviction, and, catching Frau Fischer's eye,
suddenly realised I had better go back to the house and write some letters.

It was dark and cool in my room. A chestnut tree pushed green boughs
against the window. I looked down at the horsehair sofa so openly flouting
the idea of curling up as immoral, pulled the red pillow on to the floor
and lay down. And barely had I got comfortable when the door opened and
Frau Fischer entered.