But I was to find that here at Knapf's things were
quite different. Not only was Ernst von Gerhard right in
saying that it was "very German, and very, very clean;"
he recognized good copy when he saw it. Types! I never
dreamed that such faces existed outside of the old German
woodcuts that one sees illustrating time-yellowed books.

I had thought myself hardened to strange
boarding-house dining rooms, with their batteries of
cold, critical women's eyes. I had learned to walk
unruffled in the face of the most carping, suspicious and
the fishiest of these batteries. Therefore on my first
day at Knapf's I went down to dinner in the evening,
quite composed and secure in the knowledge that my collar
was clean and that there was no flaw to find in the fit
of my skirt in the back.

As I opened the door of my room I heard sounds as of
a violent altercation in progress downstairs. I leaned
over the balusters and listened. The sounds rose and
fell and swelled and boomed. They were German sounds
that started in the throat, gutturally, and spluttered
their way up. They were sounds such as I had not heard
since the night I was sent to cover a Socialist meeting
in New York. I tip-toed down the stairs, although I
might have fallen down and landed with a thud without
having been heard. The din came from the direction of
the dining room. Well, come what might, I would not
falter. After all, it could not be worse than that awful