The next morning Bertha was wakened by Fritz. He had jumped on to her bed and had breathed softly on her eyelids. Bertha sat up, embraced and kissed him, and he immediately began to tell her how well he had fared with his uncle and aunt, how Elly had played with him, and how Richard had once had a fight with him without being able to beat him. On the previous day, too, he had learned to play the piano, and would soon be as clever at it as mamma.

Bertha was content just to listen to him.

"If only Emil could hear his sweet prattle now!" she thought.

She considered whether, on the next occasion, she should not take Fritz with her to Vienna to see Emil, by doing which she would at once remove anything of a suspicious nature in such a visit.

She thought only of the pleasant side of her experiences in Vienna, and of the letters which Emil had written to put her off scarcely anything remained in her memory, other than those words which had reference to a future meeting.

She got up in an almost cheerful frame of mind and, whilst she was dressing herself, she felt a quite new tenderness for her own body, which still seemed to her to be fragrant with the kisses of her beloved.

While the morning was yet young, she went to call on her relations. As she walked by the house of Herr Rupius she deliberated for a moment whether she should not go up and see him there and then. But she had a vague fear of being immediately involved again in the agitated atmosphere of the household, and she deferred the visit until the afternoon.

At her brother-in-law's house Elly was the first to meet her, and she welcomed her as boisterously as if Bertha had returned from a long journey. Her brother-in-law, who was on the point of going out, jestingly shook a threatening finger at Bertha and said:

"Well, have you had a good time?"

Bertha felt herself blushing crimson.

"Yes," he continued; "these are pretty stories that we hear about you!"

He did not, however, notice her embarrassment and, as he went out of the door, greeted her with a glance which plainly meant: "You can't keep your secrets from me."

"Father is always making jokes like that," said Elly. "I don't like him doing that at all!"

Bertha knew that her brother-in-law had only been talking at random, as his usual manner was, and that, if she had told him the truth, he would not have believed her for a moment.

Her sister-in-law came into the room, and Bertha had to relate all about her stay in Vienna.

To her own surprise she succeeded very well in cleverly blending truth with fiction. She told how she had been with her cousin to the public gardens and the picture gallery; on Sunday she had heard Mass at St. Stephen's Church; she had met in the street a teacher from the Conservatoire; and finally she even invented a funny married couple, whom she represented as having had supper one evening at her cousin's. The further she proceeded with her lies, the greater was her desire to tell all about Emil as well, and to inform them how she had met in the street the celebrated violinist Lindbach, who had formerly been with her at the Conservatoire, and how she had had a conversation with him. But a vague fear of not being able to stop at the right time caused her to refrain from making any reference to him.

Frau Albertine Garlan sat on the sofa in an attitude of profound lassitude, and nodded her head. Elly stood, as usual, by the piano, her head resting on her hands, and she gazed open-eyed at her aunt.

From her sister-in-law's Bertha went on to the Mahlmanns' and gave the twins their music lesson. The finger exercises and scales which she had to hear were at first intolerable to her, but finally she ceased to listen to them at all, and let her thoughts wander at will. The cheerful mood of the morning had vanished, Vienna seemed to her to be infinitely distant, a strange feeling of disquietude came over her and suddenly the fear seized her that Emil might go away immediately after his concert. That would indeed be terrible! He might go away all of a sudden without her having seen him once more—and who could say when he would return?

She wondered whether it would not be well to arrange to be in Vienna in any case on the day of the concert. She had to admit to herself that she had not: the slightest longing to hear him play. Indeed, it seemed to her that she would not in the least mind if he was not a violin virtuoso at all, if he was not even an artist, but just an ordinary kind of man—a bookseller, or something like that! If she could only have him for herself, for herself alone!…

Meanwhile the twins played through their scales. It was surely a terrible doom to have to sit there and give these untalented brats music lessons. How was it that she had been in good spirits only just a little earlier that day?…

Ah, those beautiful days in Vienna! Quite irrespective of Emil—the entire freedom, the sauntering about the streets, the walks in the public gardens…. To be sure, she had spent more money during her stay than she could afford; two dozen lessons to the Mahlmann twins would not recoup her the outlay…. And now, here she had to come back again to her relations, to give music lessons, and really it might even be necessary to look about for fresh pupils, for her accounts would not balance at all that year!… Ah, what a life!…

In the street Bertha met Frau Martin, who asked her how she had enjoyed herself in Vienna. At the same time she threw Bertha a glance which clearly said:

"I'm quite sure you don't enjoy life so much as I do with my husband!"

Bertha had an overwhelming desire to shriek in that person's face:

"I have had a much better time than you think! I have been with an enchanting young man who is a thousand times more charming than your husband! And I understand how to enjoy life quite as well as you do! You have only a husband, but I have a lover!—a lover!—a lover!"…

Yet, of course, she said nothing of the kind, but related how she had gone with her cousin and the children for a walk in the public gardens.

Bertha also met with some other ladies with whom she was superficially acquainted. She felt that her mental attitude towards those ladies had undergone a complete change since her visit to Vienna—that she was freer, superior. It seemed to her that she was the only woman in the town with any experience, and she was almost sorry that nobody knew anything about it, for although, publicly, they would have despised her, in their hearts all those women would have been filled with unutterable envy of her.

And if, after all, they had known who…. Although in that hole of a town there were certainly many who had not so much as heard Emil's name! If only there was some one in the world to whom she could open her heart! Frau Rupius—yes, there was Frau Rupius!… But, of course, she was in the habit of going away, of taking trips!… And, to tell the truth, thought Bertha, that was also a matter of indifference to her. She would only like to know how things would eventually turn out so far as she and Emil were concerned, she would like to know how matters actually stood. It was the uncertainty that was causing her that terrible uneasiness…. Had she only had a love affair with him, after all?… Ah, but why had she not gone to him once again?… But, of course, that was quite impossible!… That letter…. He didn't want to see her, that was it!… But then, on the other hand, he had sent her flowers….

And now she was back again with her relations. Richard was going to meet her and embrace her in his playful manner. She pushed him away.

"Impudent boy!" she thought to herself. "I know very well what he means by doing that, although he himself does not know. I understand these things—I have a lover in Vienna!…"

The music lesson took its course and, at the end of it, Elly and Richard played as a duet Beethoven's [Footnote: Query—Brahms (translator's note).] "Festival Overture" which was intended by them to be a birthday surprise for their father.

Bertha thought only of Emil. She was nearly being driven out of her mind by this wretched strumming … no, it was not possible to live on like that, whichever way she looked at it!… She was still a young woman, too…. Yes, that was the secret of it all, the real secret…. She would not be able to live on like that any more…. And yet it would not do for her … any other man…. How could she ever think of such a thing!… What a very wicked person she must be, after all! Who could tell whether it had not been that trait in her character which Emil, with his great experience of life, had perceived in her, and which had been the cause of his being unwilling to see her any more?… Ah, those women surely had the best of it who took everything easily, and, when abandoned by one man, immediately turned to another…. But stay, whatever could it be that was putting such thoughts as these into her head? Had Emil, then, abandoned her?… In three or four days she would be in Vienna again; with him; in his arms!… And had she been able to live for three years as she had done?… Three?—Six years—her whole life!… If he only knew that, if he only believed that!

Her sister-in-law came into the room and invited Bertha to have supper with them that evening…. Yes, that was her only distraction: to go out to dinner or supper occasionally at some other house than her own!

If only there was a man in the town to whom she could talk!… And Frau Rupius was going off on her travels and leaving her husband…. Hadn't a love affair, maybe, something to do with that, Bertha wondered.

The music lesson came to an end and Bertha took her leave. In the presence of her sister-in-law, too, she noticed that she had that feeling of superiority, almost of compassion, which had come over her when she had seen the other ladies. Yes, she was certain that she would not give up that one hour with Emil for a whole life such as her sister-in-law led. Moreover, as she thought to herself as she was walking homewards, she had not been able to arrive at a complete perception of her happiness, which, indeed, had all slipped by so quickly. And then that room, that whole house, that frightful picture…. No, no, it was all really hideous rather than anything else. After all, the only really beautiful moments had been those which had followed, when Emil had accompanied her to her hotel in the carriage, and her head had rested on his breast….

Ah, he loved her indeed; of course, not so deeply as she loved him; but how could that be possible? What a number of experiences he had had in his life! She thought of that now without any feeling of jealousy; rather, she felt a slight pity for him in having to carry so much in his memory. It was quite evident from his appearance that he was not a man who took life easily…. He was not of a cheerful disposition…. All the hours which she had spent with him seemed in her recollection as if encompassed by an incomprehensible melancholy. If she only knew all about him! He had told her so little about himself … nothing, indeed, absolutely nothing!… But how would that have been possible on the very first day that they had met again? Ah! if only he really knew her! If she were only not so shy, so incapable of expressing herself!

She would have to write to him again before seeing him…. Yes, she would write to him that very day. What a stupid concoction it was, that letter which she had sent him on the previous day! In truth, he could not have sent her any other answer than that which she had received. She would not write to him either defiantly or humbly…. No, after all, she was his beloved! She who, as she walked along the streets here in the little town, was regarded by every one who met her as one of themselves … she was the beloved of that magnificent man whom she had worshipped since her girlhood. How unreservedly and unaffectedly she had given herself to him—not one of all the women she knew would have done that!… Ah, and she would do still more! Oh, yes! She would even live with him without being married to him, and she would be supremely indifferent to what people might say … she would even be proud of her action! And later on he would marry her, after all … of course he would. She was such a capable housekeeper, too…. And how much good it would be sure to do him, after the unsettled existence which he had been leading during the years of his wanderings, to live in a well-ordered house, with a good wife by his side, who had never loved any man but him.

And now she was home again. Before dinner was served she had made all her preparations for writing the letter. She ate her dinner with feverish impatience; she scarcely allowed herself time to cut up Fritz's dinner and give it to him. Then, instead of undressing him herself and putting him to bed for his afternoon sleep, as she was always accustomed to do, she told the maid to attend to him.

She sat down at the desk and the words flowed without effort from her pen, as though she had long ago composed in her head the whole letter.

"My EMIL, MY BELOVED, MY ALL!

"Since I have returned home again I have been possessed by an overwhelming desire to write to you, and I should like to say to you over and over again how happy, how infinitely happy, you have made me. I was angry with you at first when you wrote and said you could not see me on Sunday. I must confess that to you as well, for I feel that I am under the necessity of telling you everything that passes in my mind. Unfortunately, I could not do so while we were together; I had not the power of expressing myself, but now I can find the words and you must, I fear, put up with my boring you with this scribble. My dearest, my only one—yes, that you are, although it seems to me that you were not quite so certain of it as you ought to have been. I beseech you to believe that it is true. You see, I have no means, of course, wherewith to tell you this, other than these words, Emil, I have never, never loved any man, but you—and I will never love any other. Do with me as you will. I have no ties in the little town where I am living now—on the contrary, indeed, I often find it a terrible thing to be obliged to live my life here. I will move to Vienna, so as to be near you. Oh, do not fear that I will disturb you! I am not alone, you see, I have my boy, whom I idolize. I will cut down my expenses, and, in the long run, why shouldn't I succeed in finding pupils even in a large town like Vienna just as I do here, perhaps, indeed, even more easily than here, and in that way improve my position? Yet that is a secondary consideration, for I may tell you that it has long been my intention to move to Vienna if only for the sake of my dearly loved boy, when he grows older.

"You cannot imagine how stupid the men are here! And I can no longer bear to look at any one of them at all, since I have again had the happiness of being in your company.

"Write to me, my dearest! Yet you need not trouble to send me a whole long letter. In any case I shall be coming to Vienna again this week. I would have had to do so in any event, because of some pressing commissions, and you will then be able to tell me everything—just what you think of my proposal, and what you consider best for me to do. But you must promise me this, that, when I live in Vienna, you will often visit me. Of course, no one need know anything about it, if you do not care that they should. But you may believe me—every day on which I may be allowed to see you will be a red-letter day for me and that, in all the world, there is nobody who loves you in such a true and life-long manner as I do.

"Farewell, my beloved!

"Your

"BERTHA."

She did not venture to read over what she had written, but left the house at once so as to take the letter herself to the railway station. There she saw Frau Rupius, a few paces in front of her, accompanied by a maid who was carrying a small valise.

What could that mean?

She caught up Frau Rupius, just as the latter was going into the waiting room. The maid laid the valise on the large table in the centre of the room, kissed her mistress's hand, and departed.

"Frau Rupius!" exclaimed Bertha, a note of inquiry in her voice.

"I heard that you had returned already. Well, how did you get on?" said
Frau Rupius, extending her hand in a friendly way.

"Very well—very well indeed, but—"

"Why, you are gazing at me as though you were quite frightened! No, Frau Bertha, I am coming back again—no later than to-morrow. The long journey that I had in view came to nothing, so I have had to—settle on something else."

"Something else?"

"Why, of course, staying at home. I shall be back again to-morrow. Well, how did you get on?"

"I told you just now—very well."

"Yes, of course, you did tell me before. But I see you are going to post that letter, are you not?"

And then for the first time Bertha noticed that she was still holding the letter to Emil in her hand. She gazed at it with such enraptured eyes that Frau Rupius smiled.

"Perhaps you would like me to take it with me? It is to go to Vienna,
I presume?"

"Yes," answered Bertha, and then she added resolutely, as though she was glad to be able to say it out at last: "to him."

Frau Ropius nodded her head, as if satisfied. But she neither looked at
Bertha nor made any reply.

"I am so glad that I have met you again!" said Bertha. "You are the only woman here, you know, whom I trust; indeed, you are the only woman who could understand anything like this."

"Ah, no," said Frau Rupius to herself, as though she were dreaming.

"I do envy you so, because to-day in a few short hours you will see
Vienna again. How fortunate you are!"

Frau Rupius had sat down in one of the leather armchairs by the table.
She rested her chin on her hand, looked at Bertha, and said:

"It seems to me, on the other hand, that it is you who are fortunate."

"No, I must, you see, remain here."

"Why?" asked Frau Rupius. "You are free, you know. But go and put that letter into the box at once, or I shall see the address, and so learn more than you wish to tell me."

"I will, though not because of that—but I should be glad if the letter went by this train and not later."

Bertha hurried into the vestibule, posted the letter and at once returned to Anna, who was still sitting in the same quiet attitude.

"I might have told you everything, you know," Bertha went on to say; "indeed I might say that I wished to tell you before I actually went to Vienna … but—just fancy, isn't it strange? I did not venture to do so."

"Moreover at that time, too, there probably had not been anything to tell," said Frau Rupius, without looking at Bertha.

Bertha was amazed. How clever that woman was! She could see into everybody's thoughts!

"No, at that time there had not been anything to tell," she repeated, gazing at Frau Rupius with a kind of reverence. "Just think—you will probably find it hard to believe what I am going to tell you now, but I should feel a liar if I kept it secret."

"Well?"

Bertha had sat down on a seat beside Frau Rupius, and she spoke in a lower tone, for the vestibule door was standing open.

"I wanted to tell you this, Anna: that I do not in the least feel that I have done anything wicked, not even anything immoral."

"It wouldn't be a very clever thing, either, if you had."

"Yes, you are quite right…. What I really meant to say was rather that it seems to me as though I had done something quite good, as if I had done something outstanding. Yes, Frau Rupius, the fact of the matter is, I have been proud of myself ever since."

"Well, there is probably no reason for that either," said Frau Rupius, as if lost in thought, stroking Bertha's hand, which lay upon the table.

"I am aware of that, of course, and yet I am so proud and seem quite different from all the women whom I know. You see if you knew … if you were acquainted with him—it is such a strange affair! You mustn't think, let me tell you, that it is an acquaintanceship which I have made recently—quite the contrary; I have been in love with him, you must know, ever since I was quite a young girl, no less than twelve years ago. For a long time we had completely lost sight of one another, and now—isn't it wonderful?—now he is my … my … my … lover!"

She had said it at last. Her whole face was radiant.

Frau Rupius threw her a glance in which could be detected a little scorn and a great deal of kindliness.

"I am glad that you are happy," she said.

"How very kind you are indeed! But then, you see, on the other hand again, it is a dreadful thing that we are so far apart from one another; he, in Vienna; I, here—I don't think I shall ever be able to endure that. Moreover, I have ceased to feel that I belong to this place, least of all to my relations. If they knew … no, if they knew! However, they would never be able to bring themselves to believe it. A woman like my sister-in-law, for instance—well, I am perfectly certain that she could never imagine such a thing to be in any way possible."

"But you are really very ingenuous!" said Frau Rupius suddenly, almost with exasperation. Then she listened for a moment. "I thought I could hear the train whistling already."

She rose to her feet, walked over to the large glass door leading on to the platform, and looked out. A porter came and asked for the tickets in order to punch them.

"The train for Vienna is twenty minutes late," he remarked, at the same time.

Bertha had stood up and gone over to Frau Rupius.

"Why do you consider that I am ingenuous?" she asked shyly.

"But, indeed, you know absolutely nothing about men," replied Frau Rupius, as if she were annoyed. "You haven't, you know, the slightest idea among what kind of people you are living. I can assure you, you have no reason at all to be proud."

"I know, of course, that it is very stupid of me."

"Your sister-in-law—that is delightful!—your sister-in-law!"

"What do you mean, then?"

"I mean that she has had a lover too!"

"Whatever put such an idea as that into your head!"

"Well, she is not the only woman in this town."

"Yes, there are certainly women who … but, Albertine—"

"And do you know who it was? That is very amusing! It was Herr
Klingemann!"

"No, that is impossible!"

"Of course, it is now a long time ago, about ten or eleven years."

"But at that time, by the way, you yourself had not come to live here,
Frau Rupius!"

"Oh, I have heard it from the best source. It was Herr Klingemann himself who told me about it."

"Herr Klingemann himself! But is it possible for a man to be so base as all that!"

"I don't think there's the least doubt about that," answered Frau Rupius, sitting down on a seat near the door, whilst Bertha remained standing beside her, listening in amazement to her friend's words. "Yes, Herr Klingemann himself…. As soon as I came to the town, you must know, he did me the honour of making violent love to me, neck or nothing, so to speak. You know yourself, of course, what a loathsome wretch he is. I laughed him to scorn, which probably exasperated him a great deal, and evidently he thought that he would be able conclusively to prove to me how irresistible he was by recounting all his conquests."

"But perhaps he told you some things which were not true."

"A great deal, probably; but this story, as it happens, is true…. Ah, what a rabble these men are!"

There was a note of the deepest hatred in Frau Rupius' voice. Bertha was quite frightened. She had never thought it possible that Frau Rupius could have said such things.

"Yes, why shouldn't you know what kind of men they are amongst whom you are living?" continued Frau Rupius.

"No, I would never have thought it possible! If my brother-in-law knew about it!—"

"If he knew about it? He knows about it as well as you or I do!"

"What do you say! No, no!"

"Indeed, he caught them together—you understand me! Herr Klingemann and Albertine! So that, however much inclined he might have been to make the best of things, there was no doubt possible!"

"But, for Heaven's sake—what did he do, then?"

"Well, as you can see for yourself, he has not turned her out!"

"Well, yes, the children … of course!"

"The children—pooh-pooh! He forgave her for the sake of convenience—and chiefly because he could do as he liked after that. You can see for yourself how he treats her. When all is said and done, she is but little better than his servant; you know as well as I do in what a miserable, brow-beaten way she slinks about. He has brought it to this, that, ever since that moment, she has always had to look upon herself as a woman who has been treated with mercy. And I believe she has even a perpetual fear that he is reserving the punishment for some future day. But it is stupid of her to be afraid of that, for he wouldn't look out for another housekeeper for anything…. Ah, my dear Frau Bertha, we are not by any means angels, as you know now from your own experiences, but men are infamous so long"—she seemed to hesitate to complete the phrase—"so long as they are men."

Bertha was as though crushed; not so much on account of the things which Frau Rupius had told her as on account of the manner in which she had done so. She seemed to have become a quite different woman, and Bertha was pained at heart.

The door leading to the platform was opened and the low, incessant tinkling of the telegraph was heard. Frau Rupius stood up slowly, her features assumed a mild expression, and, stretching out her hand to Bertha, she said:

"Forgive me, I was only a little bit vexed. Things can be also very nice; of course, there are certainly decent men in the world as well as others. Oh, yes, things can be very nice, no doubt."

She looked out on to the railway lines and seemed to be following the iron track into the distance. Then she went on to say with that same soft, harmonious voice which appealed so strongly to Bertha:

"I shalt be home again to-morrow evening…. Oh, yes, of course, my travelling case!"

She hurried to the table and took her valise.

"It would have been a terrible catastrophe if I had forgotten that! I cannot travel without my ten bottles! Well, good-bye! And don't forget, though, that all I have been telling you happened ten years ago."

The train came into the station. Frau Rupius hurried to a compartment, got in, and, looking out of the window, nodded affably to Bertha. The latter endeavoured to respond as cheerfully, but she felt that her wave of the hand to the departing Frau Rupius was stiff and forced.

Slowly she walked homewards again. In vain she sought to persuade herself that all that she had heard was not the least concern of hers; the long past affair of her sister-in-law, the mean conduct of her brother-in-law, the baseness of Klingemann, the strange whims of that incomprehensible Frau Rupius; all had nothing to do with her. She could not explain it to herself, but somehow, it seemed to her as though all these things were mysteriously related to her own adventure.

Suddenly the gnawing doubts appeared again…. Why hadn't Emil wanted to see her again? Not on the following day, or on the second or on the third day? How was it? He had attained his object, that was sufficient for him…. However had she been able to write him that mad, shameless letter?

And a thrill of fear arose within her…. If he were to show her letter to another woman, maybe … make merry over it with her…. No, how on earth could such an idea come into her head? It was ridiculous even to think of such a thing!… It was possible, of course, that he would not answer the letter and would throw it into the wastepaper basket—but nothing worse than that…. No…. However, she must just have patience, and in two or three days all would be decided. She could not say anything with certainty, but she felt that this unendurable confusion within her mind could not last much longer. The question would have to be settled, somehow.

Late in the afternoon she again went for a walk amongst the vine-trellises with Fritz, but she did not go into the cemetery. Then she walked slowly down the hill and sauntered along under the chestnut trees. She chatted with Fritz, asked him about all sorts of things, listened to his stories and, as her frequent custom was, instilled some knowledge into his head on several subjects. She tried to explain to him how far the sun is distant from the earth, how the rain comes from the clouds, and how the bunches of grapes grow, from which wine is made. She was not annoyed, as often happened, if the boy did not pay proper attention to her, because she realized well enough that she was only talking for the sake of distracting her own thoughts.

Then she walked down the hill, under the chestnut trees, and so back to the town. Presently she saw Herr Klingemann approaching, but the fact made not the slightest impression upon her. He spoke to her with forced politeness; all the time he held his straw hat in his hand and affected a great and almost gloomy gravity. He seemed very changed, and she observed, too, that his clothes in reality were not at all elegant, but positively shabby. Suddenly she could not help picturing him tenderly embracing her sister-in-law, and she felt extremely disgusted.

Later on she sat down on a bench and watched Fritz playing with some other children, all the time making an effort to keep her attention fixed on him so that she would not have to think of anything else.

In the evening she went to her relatives. She had a sensation as though she had had a presentiment of everything long before, for otherwise how could she have failed to have been struck before this by the kind of relations which existed between her brother-in-law and his wife? The former again made jocular remarks about Bertha's visit to Vienna. He asked when she was going there again, and whether they would not soon be hearing of her engagement. Bertha entered into the joke, and told how at least a dozen men had proposed to her, amongst others, a Government official; but she felt that her lips alone were speaking and smiling, while her soul remained serious and silent.

Richard sat beside her, and his knee touched hers, by chance. And as he was pouring out a glass of wine for her and she seized his hand to stop him, she felt a comforting glow steal up her arm as far as her shoulder. It made her feel happy. It seemed to her that she was being unfaithful to Emil. And that was quite as she wished; she wanted Emil to know that her senses were on the alert, that she was just the same as other women, and that she could accept the embraces of her nephew in just the same way as she did his…. Ah, yes, if he only knew it! That was what she ought to have written in her letter, not that humble, longing letter!…

But even while these thoughts were surging through her mind, she remained serious in the depths of her soul, and a feeling of solitude actually came over her, for she knew that no one could imagine what was taking place within her.

Afterwards, when she was walking homewards through the deserted streets, she met an officer whom she knew by sight. With him he had a pretty woman whom she had never seen before.

"Evidently a woman from Vienna!" she thought, for she knew that the officers often had such visitors.

She had a feeling of envy towards the woman; she wished that she was also being accompanied by a handsome young officer at that moment…. And why not?… After all, everybody was like that…. And now she herself had ceased to be a respectable woman. Emil, of course, did not believe that, any more than anybody else, and, anyhow, it was all just the same!

She reached home, undressed and went to bed. But the air was too sultry. She got up again, went to the window and opened it. Outside, all was dark. Perhaps somebody could see her standing there at the window, could see her skin gleaming through the darkness…. Indeed, she would not mind at all if anybody did see her like that!… Then she lay down on the bed again…. Ah, yes, she was no better than any of the others! And there was no good reason either why she should be….

Her thoughts grew indistinct…. Yes, he was the cause of it all, he had brought her to this, he had just taken her like a woman of the street—and then cast her off!… Ah, it was shameful, shameful!—-how base men were! And yet … it was delightful….

She fell asleep.