11

NEXT day for the first time Albinus accompanied her when she went out. She wanted many light frocks and bathing things and pounds of cream that would help the sun to bronze her. Solfi, the Adriatic resort which Albinus had selected for their first trip together, was a hot and dazzling place. As they were getting into a cab, she noticed her brother standing on the other side of the street, but she did not point him out to Albinus.

Showing himself with Margot made him acutely uncomfortable; he could not get used to his new position. When they returned, Otto had vanished. Margot rightly supposed that he was very hurt and would now act injudiciously.

Two days before their departure Albinus was seated at a peculiarly uncomfortable desk writing a business letter while she was packing things into the new shiny black trunk in the adjoining room. He heard the rustling of tissue paper and a little song which she was softly humming to herself, her mouth shut.

“How strange it all is,” thought he. “Had I been told on New Year’s Eve that my life would change so completely in a few months …”

Margot dropped something in the next room. The humming stopped for a moment, and was then softly resumed.

“Six months ago I was a model husband in a Margot-less world. Quick work fate made of it! Other men can combine a happy family life with little infidelities, but in my case everything went crash immediately. Why? And here I sit and seem to be thinking clearly and sensibly. Yet in reality the earthquake is in full swing and God knows how things will settle themselves …”

Suddenly the bell rang. From three different doors Albinus, Margot and the cook all ran out into the hall simultaneously.

“Albert,” whispered Margot, “be very careful. I’m sure it’s him.”

“Go to your room,” he whispered back. “I’ll handle him nicely.”

He opened the door. It was the girl from the milliner’s. Hardly had she gone, than there was another ring. He opened again. Before him stood a youth with a coarse oafish countenance, yet resembling Margot strikingly—those dark eyes, that sleek hair, that straight nose slightly wedged at the tip. He wore his Sunday suit and the end of his tie was tucked into his shirt between the buttons.

“What do you want?” asked Albinus.

Otto coughed and said with a confidential huskiness in his voice:

“I must talk to you about my sister. I’m Margot’s brother.”

“And why to me particularly, may I ask?”

“You are Herr …?” began Otto in a questioning tone. “Herr …?”

“Schiffermiller,” said Albinus, rather relieved to learn that the boy did not know his identity.

“Well, Herr Schiffermiller, I happened to see you with my sister. So I thought it would perhaps interest you if I … if we …”

“Certainly—but why stand in the doorway? Please come inside.”

He came and coughed again.

“What I want to say is this, Herr Schiffermiller. My sister is young and inexperienced. Mother hasn’t slept a single night since our little Margot left home. She’s only sixteen, you know—don’t believe her if she says she’s older. Let me tell you, we’re decent people—my father’s an old soldier. It’s a very, very unpleasant situation. I don’t know what amends can be made …”

Otto, gaining confidence, was beginning almost to believe what he said.

“I really don’t know,” he continued with rising excitement. “Just imagine, Herr Schiffermiller, if you had a loved and innocent sister whom someone had bought …”

“Now listen, my good fellow,” Albinus interrupted him. “There seems to be some mistake. My fiancée told me that her family was only too thankful to be rid of her.”

“Oh, no,” said Otto winking. “You’re not going to make me believe you’ll marry her. When a man wants to marry a respectable girl, he talks to her family about it. A little more care and a little less pride, Herr Schiffermiller!”

Albinus gazed at Otto with curiosity, as he reflected that the young brute was talking sense in a way, for he had as much right to concern himself over Margot’s welfare as Paul had to worry on behalf of his sister. Indeed, there was a fine flavor of parody about this talk, in comparison with that other dreadful conversation two months ago. And it was pleasant to think that now at least he could stand his own ground, brother or no brother—take advantage, as it were, of the fact that Otto was simply a bluffer and a bully.

“You’d better stop,” he said, very resolutely, very coolly—quite the patrician, in fact. “I know exactly how things stand. It is no concern of yours. Now please go.”

“Oh, really,” said Otto frowning. “Very well.”

He was silent, twisted his cap in his hand and looked at the floor. Then he tried a different key.

“You may have to pay dearly for it before you’ve done, Herr Schiffermiller. My little sister is not exactly what you think her to be. I called her innocent, but that was brotherly compassion. You’re too easily led by the nose, Herr Schiffermiller. It’s mighty funny to hear you call her your fiancée. It makes me laugh. Now, I could tell you a thing or two …”

“Quite superfluous,” replied Albinus flushing. “She has told me everything herself. An unfortunate child whom her family could not protect. Please, go at once”—and Albinus opened the door.

“You’ll regret it,” said Otto awkwardly.

“Go or I’ll kick you out,” said Albinus (putting the last sweet touch to victory, so to speak).

Otto retired very slowly.

Being endowed with that kind of shallow sentimentality peculiar to his bourgeois set, Albinus (with the plum in his mouth) suddenly pictured to himself how poor and ugly the life of this boy must be. Also—he did look like Margot, when Margot sulked. Before shutting the door he swiftly produced a ten-mark note and pressed it into Otto’s hand.

The door closed. Otto alone on the landing examined the note, stood there a moment lost in thought, then rang the bell.

“What, back again?” exclaimed Albinus.

Otto stretched out his hand with the money.

“I don’t want your tips,” he muttered angrily. “Better give it to the unemployed—there are plenty of them about.”

“But, please take it,” said Albinus feeling terribly embarrassed.

Otto shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t accept crumbs from the bloody rich. A poor man has his pride. I …”

“Well, it was only meant …” began Albinus.

Otto shuffled his feet, thrust the note sullenly into his pocket and, muttering, walked on downstairs. Social honor was satisfied, now he could afford to satisfy more human needs.

“Not much,” he reflected, “but better than nothing, anyway—and he’s afraid of me, the popeyed, stammering fool.”