Brauner went to the door leading down the private hall.
``Mother!'' he called. ``Come at once. Mr. Feuerstein's going
to act.''

Hilda was bubbling over with delight. Otto sat forgotten in the
corner. Mrs. Brauner came bustling, her face rosy from the
kitchen fire and her hands moist from a hasty washing. Mr.
Feuerstein waited until all were seated in front of him. He then
rose and advanced with stately tread toward the clear space. He
rumpled his hair, drew down his brows, folded his arms, and began
a melancholy, princely pacing of the floor. With a suddenness
that made them start, he burst out thunderously. He strode, he
roared, he rolled his eyes, he waved his arms, he tore at his
hair. It was Wallenstein in a soul-sweat. The floor creaked,
the walls echoed. His ingenuous auditors, except Otto, listened
and looked with bated breath. They were as vastly impressed as
is a drawing-room full of culture-hunters farther up town when a
man discourses to them on a subject of which he knows just enough
for a wordy befuddling of their ignorance. And the burst of
applause which greeted the last bellowing groan was full as
hearty as that which greets the bad singing or worse playing at
the average musicale.

Swollen with vanity and streaming with sweat, Mr. Feuerstein sat
down. ``Good, Mr. Feuerstein--ah! it is grand!'' said Brauner.
Hilda looked at her lover proudly. Otto felt that the recitation
was idiotic-- ``Nobody ever carried on like that,'' he said to
himself. But he also felt the pitiful truth, ``I haven't got a
ghost of a chance.''