Mrs. Laue was not a little astonished when one day her former tenant, the grande dame, appeared at her door in an ill-fitting alpaca suit and a sailor hat, trimmed with a green band, begging for admittance.

The young lady tenant of the year had just been married, and the best room was vacant.

Thus, it came about that Mrs. Laue's red plush furniture once more cast a fiery glow upon Lilly's life.

The photographs of famous mimes smirked upon her patronisingly. And while performing her morning toilet, she was admonished:

The way Konrad looked out for her was touching. He instantly drew all his money from the bank, five hundred marks, and himself went to buy an outfit for her, since she could not appear on the street in the garments she had worn when she had come to him.

He had let the salesladies persuade him into buying the absurdest things. Lilly would have split her sides laughing over them, if they had not represented a goodly portion of his money.

The shoddy dress struck her as a temporary masquerade; and nothing in the world would have induced her to wear it outside the house.

Mrs. Laue shook her head dubiously.

"When you moved away from here four years ago, you had the finest gowns and brooches and bracelets and all sorts of things; and now you come back in rags. It seems to me you're on the wrong road, Lilly dear."

Konrad found as little favour in Mrs. Laue's eyes.

"He's too young for you, and not stylish enough. Maybe he has ideal sentiments—if he hadn't he would snap his fingers at you. But I tell you, ideal sentiments always go hand in hand with trouble."

Lilly thought the old woman's chatter abominable. But for lack of something better to do during the daytime—Konrad was busy and could not come until evening—she again took to pasting flowers in Mrs. Laue's company. Occasionally it seemed to her she had never gone away from her.

Lilly had written to Adele the very first day, without, of course, mentioning her address. She told her not to be troubled by her absence, and to attend to the apartment as usual until Mr. Dehnicke's return.

It was more difficult to pen her farewell to her old friend. She said nothing of Konrad. For the present her engagement was to be kept a secret. She gave as the sole cause for her flight her irresistible desire at last to live a different life. She also referred to her wish not to stand in the way of his future, and wound up with cordial words, which robbed separation of its bitterness.

When she read the letter over, she felt a genuine pang, at which she was a bit ashamed.

The days passed.

The new life that had been the dream of her dreams for years had begun, freighted with boundless confidence, such as she had not ventured to hope for in her wildest fancyings.

With her sins washed away, redeemed, reborn, she stepped back into virtuous society at the side of the beloved man, whom only a few days before, it would have been arrogance, sacrilege to wish to possess.

Who would have believed it?

And yet Lilly was unable to attain to perfect enjoyment of her unspeakable happiness.

No matter how often she told herself it was nothing but a transition period, soon to pass, the misery of her old quarters, the poor-peoples' odour, the spiritual mustiness that pervaded the place, bad food, the lack of suitable clothes, money and service, all this worked upon her sufficiently to delude her into the belief that instead of rising to new honours, she was suddenly sinking from splendour and brilliance to a dull, dead level.

No matter that she found fault with herself for this ungrateful frame of mind, the fact was, the feeling was there, and she could not dismiss it.

And how account for it that five years before when she had descended from the genuine heights of life, delicately nurtured, a spoiled darling, accustomed to luxury and attention, such as is granted to few persons in the world, she had scarcely suffered from the wretchedness of these surroundings? In fact, though utterly without prospects, she had felt tolerably secure. But now that the idle comfort of a vapid existence fortunately lay behind her, and her beloved walked by her side ready to throw open the gates to a happiness she had never divined, she was unable to breathe among the red plush chairs. Trifles annoyed her, and she hankered for a bathroom and a hairdresser.

Something must have departed from her during those years. She thought and thought, but failed to discover what it was.

Added to all these troubles was her worry over Konrad's condition.

Whenever her soul conjured up his image, her heart throbbed with mingled sensations—secret pangs of conscience, longings for atonement, reproaches, not to be stilled, of herself and—why conceal it?—of Konrad also.

Her yearning for him no longer had a quality of joyousness; and yet, she was ever expectant of a letter from him by the pneumatic tube.

If he wrote, he said too little; and if he sent no message at all she felt angry, though she well knew he had not a second to spare for her during the day, and was drudging as never before in his life.

He would come at last between eight and nine in the evening; and then loaded with papers and books. He had manuscripts to read, proofs to look over, and letters to answer. He scarcely took time to eat, and while he snatched a few bites, troubled recollections of things he had forgotten during the day kept flashing up in his harassed brain.

There was no thought of amorous nights. As a rule Konrad fell asleep in the midst of work.

As he reclined there in the corner of the sofa, Lilly could appreciate how tired and worn he was. He no longer cared for his person. His clothes hung on him impressed, and in place of the velvety sheen on his cheeks, which had been her delight, she saw dark boils and coarse stubble.

She would have given a great deal to learn what he thought of her in the depths of his soul. But she could extract nothing from him. He remained mute, with glowing eyes, and lips tightly compressed.

Certainly she had no right to doubt him. She knew that he spent every spare minute trying to arrange for their life in the future.

In Buenos Ayres the position of a high school teacher of German was vacant; the same in Caracas; and he could even become a university professor, though of course on the other side of the Atlantic. All he needed to do was present a few letters of recommendation from well-known professors.

Such efforts, however, were necessary only in case his uncle refused his consent to Konrad's marriage with Lilly, and dropped his disobedient heir.

If he said yes, if he furnished the means for their household, they could live aloof from the world wherever they wished, wherever conditions were best adapted for the precious work.

Konrad had immediately written to his uncle about his engagement, and told of Lilly's past in the most touching words. He had not concealed the stains on her life, but he brought out strongly her fine qualities, the virginity of her soul, her nobility, her rich intellectual endowments, the number of her ideal interests.

After he had sent off the letter, he read to Lilly a few passages from the draught of it. It was a bold document of revolutionary ideas.

"I know that I and you, too, are raised above the narrow conventions of philistinism, above the merciless judgments of social court-martials, above a Pharisaism which constitutes itself the watchdog of morality, and which with its code of formal, pedantic family relationships knocks to the ground all aspirations for free, high-minded conduct. You have lived in many parts of the world, and you have learned to know how mutable moral laws are everywhere, how hollow the pretence of regarding each as the sole God-ordained dogma, you know the sly, hypocritical paths and by-ways by which one manages to escape their tyranny, and you know that in the province of ethics there is only one thing which commands respect and admiration: the will to kallokagathia, to that form of life in which the noblemen of all times combined the beautiful with the good. Yes, beautiful and good. That is what Lilly is, her aspirations, and sufferings."

How glorious!

Who could be dull enough to resist such words?

That is what Lilly said to comfort Konrad when uncertainty as to the immediate future weighed upon him heavily.

Five days passed before the answer came upon which depended the weal or woe of two human beings.

In reading it, Lilly saw the crafty eyes of the photograph turned upon her as if the old man stood there in person.

"My dear boy:—

I don't understand anything about kallokagathia or similar phrases. It's nearly half a century ago, since I ran away from school. But I flatter myself that I can measure things pretty accurately with my eyes, and size people up by their faces, whether striking a bargain or on the Yoshiwara, whether on the various exchanges or at baccarat. Which did not keep me from being fleeced, or my life from being a series of stupidities, especially in regard to women. Once I wanted, whether or no, to bring along a young Circassian, because her eyebrows met prettily; and once I wanted to marry a little Musme because she massaged my legs so well, etc. I won't say anything of my various attempts to save souls, because everybody goes through that.

However, the god of old rogues and bachelors—perhaps with your classical knowledge you can tell me his name—mercifully kept any of my plans from maturing.

But your case seems to be essentially different. If it's really as you say, if your betrothed is really such a paragon of virtues—the world is full of surprises—and, chief of all, if she does not pose as a repentant Magdalene and bank upon your pity, it will be a pleasure to me to tweak Mr. Respectability's nose and give you my cordial blessing.

But if your intentions bear a certain family resemblance to my own in the past, then pardon me if I refuse to shoulder the responsibility for what you are pleased to call your "future," even with this in view, and if I feel compelled to beg you kindly to break off your connections with me.

In order to settle the matter to the best of my ability, I will be in Berlin day after to-morrow; and I herewith ask you and your betrothed to keep the evening free for your old uncle. As I do not know where you metropolitans dine and drink, I will have to let you know the place of our meeting after I reach Berlin.

Until then,

Yours faithfully,
Uncle Rennschmidt."

For the first time in that gloomy period Lilly saw Konrad's face relax with a smile of relief.

"If that's his attitude, then there's no danger," he said. "He will have to drop his distrust at the very first glance. Who in the world can withstand you? You just have to be a little pleasant to him, and he'll be your adorer."

But Lilly had her private opinion.

Yes, if she had her former wardrobe to choose from, perhaps she might be sure of presenting the appearance she should to his uncle. But in either one of her two ridiculous shop-girl dresses, which she had to pin painstakingly before she could wear them, without jewellery, or the thousand little appurtenances of a fine toilet, from where, in such circumstances, was she to summon the self-confidence that would force the shrewd old woman connoisseur to capitulate?

"I'm afraid I'll have to have some of your money for getting an evening costume," she said hesitatingly.

He acquiesced with pleasure. She was to have whatever she still needed, and a hat with plumes and a lace mantilla, just like the one she had had.

All this for two hundred and sixty marks.

This, the entire sum he had left, was what he handed over to her for her new purchases.

The dear boy, what sort of an idea did he have of fashionable dressing?

After he left she carefully considered ways and means.

While she wore herself out devising methods of patching up some sort of costume, the most glorious dresses hung by the dozens in her old closets, dresses which Konrad had not seen, because he had never gone to any festive gathering with her. The lace mantilla which had cost a small fortune was also there, and goodness knows what else!

But with all her might she cast the temptation from her. She had given him her word of honour.

She might deceive everybody else in the world, but not Konrad.

So she decided to go on a shopping expedition the next morning and see whether she could not ferret out a good garment at Gerson's or Wertheim's in the reduced stock.

But she was known in the shops, and the salespeople had had the experience that despite her economy she always bought nothing but the very best. How they would stare if she appeared at the counter in her tawdry trash.

No, with the best intentions she could not place herself in so distressing a situation.

She pondered a long time, but her thoughts kept returning to those wardrobes where her exquisite treasures reposed, and silently offered a wide choice.

But nowhere a little back door to slip through; nowhere a pretext for lessening the gravity of the offence.

Despite all these vexations, the night passed in caressing dreams, lighted by newly arisen hope.

And as always when Lilly's frame of mind in sleep was healthy, she felt she was being peacefully rocked to the rhythm of familiar melodies. She recognised the "Moonlight Sonata," and Grieg's "Ung Birken," and the motifs of the Rhine Daughters, and mingling with them all the Song of Songs.

As she was coming out of her sleep in the morning, she still heard: "Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field."

Suddenly with an exclamation of fright she sat up in bed.

The Song of Songs—the score—her treasure—her legacy—where was it? In the drawing-room secrÉtaire—buried, forgotten.

Not to have thought of it once!

Now there was no possibility of abiding by her promise. If she had kept her wits about her that momentous night, she would never have given it.

She had been at a loss for a pretext, and here she had a justification.

She did not experience the slightest pangs of conscience. It was a sacred cause that she was upholding.

By eight o'clock she was already on her way to her former home.

The sunny haze of the red August morning floated up to the violet-coloured heavens; sooty drops fell from the yellowing trees, and the wires of the electric trams sang their stormy song.

Lilly joined the group of people at the nearest stopping place, which from minute to minute waxed and dwindled. While waiting for a car to convey her to the distant west side, she looked about in all directions to see whether by chance Konrad was coming down the street.

In the car she sat with a newspaper held close to her face, and on the short path along the canal she slipped from tree to tree like a wild animal seeking cover.

At last she reached her house.

The porter, who was sweeping the front, greeted her with a shout of surprise. The green-grocer smiled a mischievous greeting up to her from his cellar door, and his two urchins, in whose mind Lilly was connected with sweets, hung to her skirt with happy little noises.

All this instantly produced a sensation of returning home.

Adele was still asleep. Why should she not be? She had nothing to do.

When she opened the door, she showed the greatest delight. She even wept great tears, and Lilly suddenly realised what she was losing in her.

Everything shone spick and span in the morning sunlight. Even the flowers had been kept watered.

The canary beat his wings by way of greeting, and Peter wanted to break the bars of his cage to reach Lilly's shoulder.

She did not know to whom or to what to turn first from sheer love, nor what question to ask first.

Three letters and two telegrams lay on the card tray.

The letters were in Richard's writing. The telegrams were directed to Adele and urgently inquired for Lilly's address.

But after sending these missives, Mr. Dehnicke, Adele informed her, had given up his affairs in Harzburg and returned to Berlin. He had inserted advertisements for her in the papers, and came every day at the usual hour to find out if they had met with success. Then he sat on his customary seat, very quiet, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes until the time for returning to his office.

"Did you tell him about Dr. Rennschmidt?"

"What do you think of me, Mrs. Czepanek? Do you suppose I don't know how to look out for my mistress's honour? But the best thing would be if you were to come back and behave as if nothing had happened. That's what all my ladies used to do."

Lilly asked her to fetch from the basement the smaller of the two leather trunks, explaining that she wished to take a few of her old possessions with her.

After Adele had swung herself out of the room sulking, Lilly gathered up Konrad's letters from the secret drawer in which she had hidden them, and then ran hastily to her large wardrobe, from which she pulled out all her dresses and threw them on the bed in order to select whatever might be of use to her.

At last the Song of Songs occurred to her.

She opened the secrÉtaire.

The score, which had dreamed away its aimless existence for years in the back part of the lowest drawer, had acquired a strange aspect.

The rubber band about it was sticky, and fell to bits when Lilly wanted to undo the roll.

The sheets glided from her hand and flew over the carpet one by one.

There they all lay—the arias and recitatives, the duos and orchestral interludes—mingled and confused, and on top the turtle dove solo for the clarionet, which she had sung with her mother while still a lisping babe.

She looked at the scattered leaves in dismay.

They had turned yellow and mouldy. Many of them were plastered with blood, her own blood, which had squirted from the knife wound her mother had inflicted, and covered large spots with black and reddish brown stains. Some of the stains had been eaten into holes, the work of the mice at Lischnitz.

So there it was—her Song of Songs.

Nevermore any hope. No rock of salvation for the future—no faithful Eckhardt in life's stress, and no guide to golden heights! A mere weather-beaten remnant, worn, though unused, honourable ballast which one drags along for unknown reasons—a light extinguished, a piece of wisdom without sense.

Shrugging her shoulders, she kneeled on the floor, and gathered up the thin rolls hastily, without regard for their order.

"I can arrange them some other time," she thought, though a faint doubt arose within her whether she ever would.

Adele came with the trunk. It had taken her an extraordinary length of time. She replied to Lilly's questions in a confused way, and glanced at the clock furtively.

She opened the trunk lid, and Lilly threw the score on the bottom.

The empty open trunk was like a mouth gaping for fodder. The clothes lay spread on the bed. Her shoes stood next to the washstand. Hats, veils, blouses, lace mantillas, silk petticoats—all waited and seemed to cry:

"Take me along."

For an instant Lilly closed her eyes and groaned, remembering the sacrifice, the only one, he demanded of her.

But it had to be.

Both his and her future depended on it.

"Mrs. Laue will hide them for me, and she can keep them afterwards," she thought.

She made her decision. Blindly she gathered up whatever her hands fell upon—in addition to her dresses the ivory toilet articles with the seven pointed coronet, the triple hand mirror, the powder box, the receipt for her furs in the storage house, and numberless little objets de luxe.

She did not forget her jewellery either.

"In case he needs some money," she thought.

She sent Adele to order a cab. This time again it was an eternity before she returned.

The porter helped carry the trunk down, and two hat boxes dangled in Adele's free hand.

One more caress of the canary's greyish green wings, one more kiss on the monkey's velvety snout, then the door closed behind her forever.

"Won't you leave an address?"

What a secretive air Adele wore!

"I will write to you, Adele, and sometime, I hope, you will come to me again."

Adele did not respond, but looked down the street expectantly.

A minute later Lilly, glancing from the hansom window as she was being driven along the canal, saw a taxicab whizz past from the opposite direction. In that second she recognised Richard seated inside.

Red as a lobster, his head inclined to one side, he stared ahead of him with wild, searching eyes at the house she had just left.

She hastily told the coachman to turn down a side street. She must not meet Richard until her fate had been decided before the world.

But in a few moments, her heart throbbing, she heard behind her the rattle and clatter that had just died down in the distance. It grew louder and louder.

The yellow wall of the taxicab shot by, turned about suddenly, and stopped. A man's voice called to Lilly's driver, and her cab was also brought to a stop.

Richard was standing close to her, holding the open door in his trembling hand.

"Where are you going?"

His voice shrilled in a feminine falsetto. His Adam's apple rose and fell convulsively over his high collar.

Lilly felt quite calm, quite equal to the situation.

He who had so long been her lord and master now seemed like a poor, helpless shadow.

"If you please, Richard, let me ride on," she said. "I took leave of you in my letter. I just came to fetch a few of my things, and now all's over between us. Why should we go on tormenting each other?"

"Come back!" he hissed.

"Why should I?"

"Come back, I say! You know where your home is. I won't let you stray about in the world any more. Heaven knows what may happen to you. Driver, turn back."

The coachman turned his russet face inquiringly to the lady in the hansom.

"I beg your pardon, Richard. I have the sole say as to this cab—and as to my future life, too. Just as you have had over your own."

"Stuff and nonsense! I suppose you're alluding to the American heiress. She can go to the devil for all I care. That's the way I've felt for some time. But you—must—come—back. You—must—come—back. You—must—you—must."

He grasped the hem of her skirt with both hands, as if to drag her from the carriage by her clothes.

"I beg you to come back—I can't sleep—I can't work—I'm so used to you. If I had married, I should have come to you directly after the wedding. Our relationship wouldn't have changed an iota. And everything in your apartment is just as you left it. You saw it. Adele says Peter won't eat, and Adele herself is worried. She says she simply can't do without you. I'll give you a life-long annuity of twenty—by God! thirty thousand marks a year. What's the difference? Mother hasn't anything against it. She sees how I take it. She knows I won't ever marry after all. She'll never do anything to you again. You can come to the office, too. You can use our carriage instead of the hired one. I'll have a telephone put up between your apartment and the stable. And if you want I'll buy an automobile a thousand times finer than this one."

That was the highest trump. No one could outbid an automobile. So he stopped to see the effect. Kneeling on the steps he leaned far into the hansom and stared into her face.

Lilly realised she could not free herself from him, unless he learned the truth.

She felt very sorry for him, but it had to be.

"Listen, Richard! What you offer doesn't count with me anymore. Because I love another man—who wants to give me much more than you."

"What! I'd like to know what sort of a young Vanderbilt he is!" he cried in jealous scorn. "Why, I never knew that side of your nature."

"He's not a young Vanderbilt, Richard. On the contrary, he's so poor he doesn't know where he'll get his bread from day to day. But I am engaged to him, and as his affianced I will have to ask you to stand out of my way."

His mouth gaped. His eyes grew large and round. He reeled back against the hindwheels of the taxicab.

"Go on!" Lilly cried to the coachman.

She leaned back in her seat, drawing a deep breath of relief, though with a faint consciousness of guilt, as if she had rid herself of her old lover too lightly.

Throughout the ride she heard back of her the chug-chug of a slow-moving automobile; and when she descended from her hansom, Richard descended from the taxicab, at a slight distance, though near enough for Lilly to catch the look in his eyes.

It was the look of a whipped dog.

As if someone were pursuing her, she ran up the four flights without concerning herself about the trunk. But a little while later the driver came panting up the stairs with it, apparently of his own accord.

When she held out the money to him, he refused it.

The gentleman downstairs, he said, had already paid for everything.