Was it a path of destiny?

The street wore its usual appearance. Truck waggons rattled along; women doing their marketing crowded in front of the provision shops; young men, hastening by with portfolios or books in their arms found time to turn and look after her. Lilly perceived this as always with a sense partly of satisfaction, partly of chagrin.

Was it a path of destiny?

The throbbing of her heart as she walked along said to her, "Yes."

She felt she was going to market to sell herself.

Herself—everything left of herself; her bit of pride, her bit of freedom, her faith that she was one of the elect, her faith in the miracle that some day was to be accomplished in her behalf.

The walk lasted nearly an hour.

She lost her way. She asked the policemen. She stood in front of shop windows to look at her reflection—she was afraid of not pleasing. And each time she saw the soft, slim contour of her tall figure with its air of pleasant self-sufficiency, she drew a breath of relief.

When she read the name of the street where he dwelt, she started in fright. She had secretly hoped she would not find it, and would have to return after all.

His house presented nothing remarkable. A grey, four-story structure with a broad, unadorned square carriage entrance, across the full width of which was a scaffolding

Liebert & Dehnicke
Manufacturers of Metal Wares

was inscribed in gold characters on an enormous iron plate stretching along half the front of the house.

From the opposite side of the street she scrutinised every detail, still oppressed by the question whether she had not better turn back.

The second story windows were closely hung with dainty Écru lace curtains. On the sills were snowy white porcelain pots filled with geraniums and marigolds. That part of the house looked better kept and more prosperous than everything round about.

"That's probably where he lives," she thought, and felt a slight dread in the face of so much serene yet severe beauty.

Then she took heart, crossed the street, and made straight for the door with iron grill work, which was next to the carriage entrance and seemed to lead up to that awe-inspiring second story.

But the door was locked, and before ringing she peeped through the grating. She saw a dark staircase solemnly lined with cypress trees and laurel bushes. In the background at the head of the stairs was a window glowing blue and red and throwing rainbow colors on a white bust in front of it. Lilly recognized the bust, having seen it in the display windows of the art shops. It was Clytie, whom she had always loved because of her gentle melancholy.

As she looked upon all this her heart sank again. She seemed to herself totally unworthy to step into those formal, peaceful regions. So she descended the three door steps and entered the profaner carriage entrance, where several labourers in white overalls were busily engaged covering the bare brick walls with highly veined marble stucco.

Men were at work in the yard as well. The round cobble stones with which it had once been paved were lying in heaps, and the ground was being covered with an ornate mosaic, of a light grey broken by white swirls and circles, like the flooring in ancient churches.

At the back of the yard rose the bald brick side of the factory, which also was undergoing changes in accordance with the general beautifying scheme. Up to about the second story the wall was being set with yellow and blue tiles. They looked gay and festive, and upon the completion of the repairs the old smoky court would have the appearance of a decorated salon.

"They're doing things here in great style," thought Lilly, growing even more timid.

To her left in a corner of the court she saw a building to which not a drop of the varnish being used on the other parts of the establishment had been applied. It stood there with bare, dun-colored plastered walls. Next to an extremely plain flight of iron steps was a metal plate inscribed "Office."

Lilly went up the iron steps and entered a badly lighted, dusty room divided in two by a wooden rail, on the farther side of which a half dozen young people were sitting at desks covered with spotted, threadbare felt. They all stared at her in astonishment. It did not occur to one of them to ask her what she wanted.

Evidently a person like herself had never before been seen in the place.

The group was turned to stone and did not regain animation until she drew her card from her gold brocade purse and silently laid it on the table. Then the six of them jumped up and tried to get possession of it. There came near being a row.

But one of them, a tall, straw-complexioned fellow, who seemed to have some authority, chased the others back to their seats with a few furtive nudges, and bowing and scraping, said to Lilly he would immediately go see whether Mr. Dehnicke—and with the card in his hand disappeared into a back room.

A few moments passed. Lilly could hear subdued voices through the half-open door.

"Czepanek? Don't know her. Ask her what she wants. What does she look like?"

The answer, which lasted several seconds, seemed to have been satisfactory, for the clerk came out and without further ado opened the gate in the wooden railing and ushered Lilly into the back room.

At last he stood before her.

Stocky, middle-sized—shorter than herself—with a tendency toward stoutness. A round, well-kept face, good, greyish blue eyes, which said little; an arched brow, light brown hair brushed back smooth from his temples, a short moustache turned up abruptly at each end, probably to proclaim the lieutenant. Remarkably small hands and ears. Everything about him breathed tidiness and scrupulousness, though it would not have mattered if he had been less well groomed.

He was taken aback at Lilly's entrance. His eyes grew round with polite astonishment.

The consciousness that she had not failed to make an impression emboldened her, and gave her a sense of security. It was not in vain that she had gone through Miss von Schwertfeger's schooling.

"I have come to you at the recommendation of a friend of both of us, who prepared you for this visit," she began, inwardly rejoiced to be able once again to play the grande dame.

A mirror hung opposite, and Lilly regarded with satisfaction the discreet wreath of violets about her lilac turban, and the violet-coloured tailor-made suit. Her image looking affably from the frame reminded her of a picture by some portrait painter of high life.

Mr. Dehnicke silently drew up a chair for her. An expectant distrust was to be detected in his eyes in place of the consternation of the first seconds. Evidently he did not dare to place her in the class in which, to judge from her appearance, she belonged.

His head was set a bit obliquely on his neck, inclining to the left, as if he had recently had an attack of lumbago. This posture increased Lilly's impression that he suspected her.

She looked down at her brocade purse, and acted as if she could scarcely suppress a smile.

He became still more confused.

"May I ask," he stammered, "who that friend—? I don't recall." In perplexity he turned over the visiting card his clerk had brought him.

Lilly rebelled at having to utter her former lover's name, and so expose her shame to the man who lived behind those respectable porcelain flower pots.

"Is it possible," she asked hesitatingly, "that you do not recall having received a letter from a comrade in your regiment, in which he asks you to interest yourself in a lady who—"

Mr. Dehnicke jumped to his feet and reddened to the roots of his hair. His eyes grew bright and round between his stretched lids and threatened to pop from their sockets.

"I beg pardon," he faltered. "You probably refer to a letter which I received nearly a year and a half ago from Lieutenant von Prell?"

"I do."

"My lady," he cried, completely upset. "If I had suspected that my lady—"

So much simple respect was depicted on his face that Lilly's consciousness of aristocracy was heightened quite a bit.

But so it could not remain.

"I call myself Lilly—Czepanek," she whispered, blushing in her turn, though delighting in the expression "call myself," which permitted the assumption that she had voluntarily chosen to use her maiden name.

Fright at the indelicacy of which he thought himself guilty was plainly to be read in his features.

"I beg pardon," he said, "I should have remembered that you must have gone through many difficulties." Then as if shot from a pistol: "Why didn't you come sooner? I waited and waited—a month—several months—then I took to looking for you—in vain. I even thought of going to a detective bureau, but I feared overstepping the bounds of reserve—"

Lilly nodded with a smile of appreciation.

"Unfortunately I did not dream of another name. So I gave up the hope of ever having the great pleasure—"

In the exuberance of his delight he seemed prepared to clasp her hand. However, he proved himself sufficiently well bred to desist when he saw she did not respond.

Lilly now had the reins of the situation in her hands. She felt she was so saturated with the romance of suffering, so enveloped by the delicate aroma of aristocratic aloofness, that she might just have stepped out of one of Mrs. Asmussen's novels.

"I am grateful to you for your reproaches. I see I did not knock at your door in vain."

"I assure you," he replied, inclining his head still more to the left by way of emphasis, "I place myself at your service with all my powers, with everything I am and—" He paused. The word "have," which should naturally have followed, was more than he, the scrupulous business man, would allow to pass his lips so lightly.

"I will not make great demands on you, of course," Lilly replied airily, to put a little damper on his ardour. "I simply do not want to be without someone to advise me as to a way of earning my livelihood, and since—Mr. von Prell"—at last the name came out—"said I might place perfect confidence in you—"

"You may rely upon me as upon Mr. von Prell himself."

"That's not saying a great deal," flashed through her head, but she kept from revealing her thought by so much as a smile.

"By the way, what do you hear from him?" he asked.

Lilly blushed. If she admitted his silence, she laid herself bare, irremediably. So, not to appear forsaken and cast aside, she said:

"On parting we agreed not to write to each other for the time being. We thought in the struggle ahead of us that eternal waiting for news and that eternal fear for each other would not leave us with the strength necessary for meeting the demands of life. But you probably have gotten a letter from him lately?"

He started, and reflected an instant.

"Yes—that is, no. Not lately. Sometime ago he wrote—he was getting along. He said he was about to make a career for himself. And he asked most urgently as to your whereabouts; in regard to which, of course, to my great distress, I could not enlighten him."

This did not sound very likely. A moment before he himself had been asking for news of Walter, and now when she inquired for Walter's address, he had to acknowledge, stammering, that the letter had not contained an address and for that reason—

It was quite clear he had fabricated.

Probably he hoped to acquire greater importance in her eyes by representing his relations with her lover as still continuing. But since similar motives had led her to trifle with the truth, she had no cause for feeling angry with him.

She now told him the purpose of her visit; described the delicate craft she had learned a few months before, the desire she had to perfect herself in it, and her helplessness when it came to practical matters. Might she ask Mr. Dehnicke to recommend some artist who could instruct her? That was all she had come to him for.

He listened to her with professional interest, and acted as if he took her plans ever so seriously. But behind the mute thoughtfulness of his features lay something that did not please her. It was not pity, most certainly not. It was rather a holding back and seeking, then an increasing satisfaction, as if he felt he was gaining ground in the measure in which the helplessness of her situation became apparent.

"A very easy matter," he replied, his manner less constrained than before. "There are several real painters among the artists who furnish the models for my business. One of them"—he turned the pages of a book—"Kellermann—the very man—and then—. However, we'll drop that for the present. There are other things to be considered in connection with your practising your profession which, it strikes me, are more important. So please don't consider me impolite if I put some questions to you."

Lilly nodded assent.

"What artistic training have you had?"

"Well, you see, that's just it," Lilly replied, getting the better of her embarrassment. "Just because I never had any I should like—"

He did not move a muscle.

"What are your means of support?"

She was silent. She felt as if her clothes were being drawn from her body piece by piece.

"I need not tell you," he added, "it's not my intention to pry into matters that do not concern me. But since you honoured me by asking my advice—"

"I still have some jewels," she said, looking at him severely and haughtily. "When they go, I'll have nothing."

He nodded slightly, as if to say, "I thought so."

"One more question: in what sort of a place are you living now?"

"In the sort of place befitting my condition. Four flights up, with a poor woman, the one from whom I learned pasting pressed flowers."

As she said this, her glance fell upon the mirror and showed her the image of the beautiful aristocratic society dame, who had condescended to bestow a visit upon Mr. Dehnicke, "comrade of the reserves," in his dark hole of an office.

He rose, and for a few moments paced up and down between the desk and the door. He was so spruce and his clothes fitted him so snugly that everything about him cracked and creaked. In his polished rotundity he looked as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. He had a little bald spot, too. But the expression of his face remained serious, almost uneasy, as if he were weighed down by heavy thoughts.

He came to a halt before her and his voice quivered a little as he spoke.

"What I am going to say has its roots in the many years of genuine friendship that unite me to Mr. von Prell—"

The mocking, condescending words with which Walter had recommended him to her, occurred to Lilly.

"I passed so many delightful hours in his company. I owe him so much inspiration and—" He stopped. He owed him so much he could not remember it all on the instant. "I will remain in debt to him the rest of my life."

"Who feels he is indebted to me because I pumped him for coin," was what Walter had written. Then there really did exist such touching creatures in the world.

"But I am most grateful to him for the confidence he showed in me by bequeathing his betrothed to me, so to speak."

"Betrothed!" The word had been uttered. She had not deceived herself. It frightened her, but she did not repudiate it. Until that day she had not even dreamed of considering Walter and herself bound to each other, neither herself, nor the poor little fellow who did not know how to care for himself, much less for a wife and child. But then—in the eyes of this man with his middle-class morals, that was the only justification for her bungled, ill-regulated existence. And not only in his eyes—in the eyes of the whole world—and, if she cared, in her own eyes, too. If she clung to the man who was practically dead to her, fastening upon him all her wishes and feelings, she would have a support for her entire being. She could ask for absolution and justification even before God.

All this flashed through her mind with lightning rapidity while Mr. Dehnicke continued to asseverate his friendship for Walter, and look at her with his round eyes in undesirous adoration. Finally he came to the point.

"In his place and for his sake I advise you most urgently to quit surroundings that do not suit you, and create an environment in keeping with your past. If you ever wish to realise your plans you will have to."

"What has my environment to do with my art?" queried Lilly, shrugging her shoulders.

"Well, in the first place you must have a studio where you can receive your customers—where you can show them who you are and the extent of your artistic demands, and what the real nature of your artistic intentions are. That is the only way of preventing your customers from treating and paying you like an ordinary worker."

"But the customers don't come to me," she interjected.

"They should come to you," he exclaimed, talking himself into a degree of eagerness. "An artist with self-respect doesn't take one step outside his studio to offer his wares for sale. You must treat yourself the same way."

She mentally calculated the value of the rest of her brooches, rings, and bracelets, and rejoined with a smile:

"Easily said."

Mr. Dehnicke made a bold sally.

"My sincere friendship for Walter"—now he called him by his first name—"gives me the right—how shall I say? to make provision, to—"

Lilly saw what was coming and shut off further discussion.

"I feel content where I am," she declared, "and until I have created with my own efforts the suitable environment that you so kindly wish for me, I do not feel I am entitled to make a change."

He bowed. His friendly zeal cooled off markedly. But he asked for her address, so that he might know where he should send her the desired information.

Lilly hesitatingly gave it to him, and added the request that in no circumstances should he come to see her.

He bowed again, and his coolness became rigidity.

But Lilly rejoiced that she had known so well how to keep him at a distance. Nobody in the wide world should call her a beggar.

She therefore took leave all the more graciously, for she had not come to him in order to frighten him away forever.

He was quick to profit by her warmer tone, and became ardent again.

If there was anything else he could do for her—if she felt lonely—and required company.

Lilly looked at his right hand, saw no wedding ring there, and smiled "no."

He understood look and smile, for he said, hemming and hawing in an endeavour to conquer fresh confusion:

"I live alone with my mother, but unfortunately I cannot take you to see her because she is sickly and since my father's death has withdrawn entirely from society. But I would be most careful as to the company to which I should introduce you."

"I took that for granted," Lilly replied with amiable condescension. "In spite of that—thank, you, really—in the peculiar position I am in it is better for me not to mingle with people."

She gave him a regal bow, held out her hand, and left.

He followed her respectfully, and the six young gentlemen stood up in a row and curved their backs like their employer.

With flushed face Lilly passed the partially completed decorations in the yard, and walked along the imitation marble entrance to the street, thinking, in mingled triumph and disenchantment:

"No, that was not a path of destiny."

But she had suddenly acquired a betrothed. That was something, at any rate.