and she recognized who it was while he was still a long way off. It was
Herr Klingemann, to whom of late she had been in the habit of talking
more frequently than had previously been her custom. Some twelve years
ago or more he had moved from Vienna to the little town. Gossip had it
that he had at one time been a doctor, and had been obliged to give up
his practice on account of some professional error, or even of some more
serious lapse. Some, however, asserted that he had never qualified as a
doctor at all, but, failing to pass his examinations, had finally given
up the study of medicine. Herr Klingemann, for his own part, gave
himself out to be a philosopher, who had grown weary of life in the
great city after having enjoyed it to satiety, and for that reason had
moved to the little town, where he could live comfortably on what
remained of his fortune.

He was now but little more than five-and-forty. There were still times
when he was of a genial enough aspect, but, for the most part, he had an
extremely dilapidated and disagreeable appearance.

While yet some distance away he smiled at the young widow, but did not
hasten his steps. Finally he stopped before her and gave her an ironical
nod, which was his habitual manner of greeting people.

"Good evening, my pretty lady!" he said.

Bertha returned his salutation. It was one of those days on which Herr
Klingemann appeared to make some claim to elegance and youthfulness. He
was attired in a dark grey frock coat, so tightly fitting that he might
almost have been wearing stays. On his head was a narrow brimmed brown
straw hat with a black band. About his throat, moreover, there was a very
tiny red cravat, set rather askew.