Frau Brechenmacher saw her husband among his colleagues at the next table.
He was drinking far too much, she knew--gesticulating wildly, the saliva
spluttering out of his mouth as he talked.

"Yes," she assented, "that's true. Girls have a lot to learn."

Wedged in between these two fat old women, the Frau had no hope of being
asked to dance. She watched the couples going round and round; she forgot
her five babies and her man and felt almost like a girl again. The music
sounded sad and sweet. Her roughened hands clasped and unclasped
themselves in the folds of her skirt. While the music went on she was
afraid to look anybody in the face, and she smiled with a little nervous
tremor round the mouth.

"But, my God," Frau Rupp cried, "they've given that child of Theresa's a
piece of sausage. It's to keep her quiet. There's going to be a
presentation now--your man has to speak."

Frau Brechenmacher sat up stiffly. The music ceased, and the dancers took
their places again at the tables.

Herr Brechenmacher alone remained standing--he held in his hands a big
silver coffee-pot. Everybody laughed at his speech, except the Frau;
everybody roared at his grimaces, and at the way he carried the coffee-pot
to the bridal pair, as if it were a baby he was holding.

She lifted the lid, peeped in, then shut it down with a little scream and
sat biting her lips. The bridegroom wrenched the pot away from her and
drew forth a baby's bottle and two little cradles holding china dolls. As