first seen him step on to the dais at a school concert. He had smoothed
back his hair in an unaffected manner, gazed at the people below with
sardonic superiority, and had acknowledged the first applause which he
had ever received in the calm, indifferent manner of one long accustomed
to such things.

It was strange, but whenever she thought of Emil Lindbach she still saw
him in her mind's eye as youthful, even boyish, just as he had been in
the days when they had known and loved each other. Yet not so long
before, when she had spent the evening with her brother-in-law and his
wife in a restaurant, she had seen a photograph of him in an illustrated
paper, and he appeared to have changed greatly. He no longer wore his
hair long; his black moustache was curled downwards; his collar was
conspicuously tall, and his cravat twisted in accordance with the fashion
of the day. Her sister-in-law had given her opinion that he looked like a
Polish count.

Bertha took up the newspaper again and was about to read on, but by that
time it was too dark. She rose to her feet and called the maid. The lamp
was brought in and the table laid for supper. Bertha ate her meal with
Fritz, the window remaining open. That evening she felt an even greater
tenderness for her child than usual; she recalled once more to memory the
times when her husband was still alive, and all manner of reminiscences
passed rapidly through her mind. While she was putting Fritz to bed, her
glance lingered for quite a long time on her husband's portrait, which
hung over the bed in an oval frame of dark brown wood. It was a
full-length portrait; he was wearing a morning coat and a white cravat,
and was holding his tall hat in his hand. It was all in memory of their
wedding day.