Vaclav, his man,--whom he, for short, called Watz,--brought in his morning coffee, and after dressing with a great running commentary of grunts and groans, he sat down to drink a mouthful of the reviving decoction. But his brain was still in a whirl, and the scenes of a few hours ago passed rapidly, but in nebulous form, before his clouded inner vision. Dimly he felt ashamed of himself. He knew he had not behaved like a gentleman, and he thought he remembered that somebody had witnessed the spectacle he had made of himself. Specht? Meckelburg? Or Müller? No--he thought not. But Borgert? Yes, he thought it was Borgert. No, no. But who? He gave it up with another groan, and took a mouthful of the cold coffee. Anyway, he had behaved in a beastly fashion. That he did know. But stop! Had she not told him how badly she was treated by her husband--how neglected--had she not appealed to his gallantry and friendship? He felt uncertain. All he knew with certainty was that he had been a brute. He buried his head in his brawny hands. How had it been possible for him so to forget himself? He knew:--champagne luncheon with that fellow Borgert,--a fellow whose powers of consumption had never been ascertained. Then, at dinner, that heavy “Turk’s blood”[7] to which Müller had to treat because of a lost bet. And then, worst of all, that thrice-condemned May bowl! And hadn’t they noticed it, the other fellows, and hadn’t they filled him up notwithstanding, or rather because, they saw that he couldn’t carry any more liquid conveniently? His big fist slammed the table. [7] “Turk’s blood” (“Türkenblut”) is the name of a mixture of English porter, brandy, and French champagne very much in vogue in the army.--TR. There was a knock at the door. The man with the sore conscience and the sorer head bade the unknown enter. It was First Lieutenant Borgert, helmet in hand. He pretended astonishment at the evident condition of his comrade, but eyed him sharply, and then said: “Pardon me if I come inopportunely, but a rather delicate matter induces me to see you this morning.” “Officially or privately?” grunted Pommer. “Both, if you wish it,” answered the other. “If a private matter I beg you will postpone it,” said Pommer. “Let us talk about it some other day.” “I regret to say that I _must_ insist on discussing the matter now,” retorted Borgert, stiffly. “You are aware, of course, that as the elder man in the service I have the right, even the duty, to remonstrate with you if I see occasion for it.” Pommer reflected a moment. In years he was the other man’s senior, and he had also visited a university for a triennium before joining the army, while the other had simply completed the easy curriculum of the military academy. But, true, Borgert was a twelvemonth ahead of him in actual service. So he silently submitted. “All right, then; to what matter do you refer, sir?” Borgert assumed the air of a grand inquisitor.