“Good evening, both of you!” she cried gayly, her voice trembling with suppressed agitation. “I hope you will pardon the delay; but Frau Pastor Klein pressed me so much to drive with her over to the city that I could not resist, and that is how it became so late. But it was delightful,--my afternoon with her. We were at a café, and made a number of purchases.” Weil arose stiffly and faced his guest. “Madam,” said he, with quiet dignity, “it is useless for you to try to deceive us as to the purpose of your absence this afternoon. The letter which reached you while at table with us, and which has come into our hands by accident, proves in the most unmistakable manner that you have abused our hospitality most grossly. May I request you to leave this house as soon as ever you can, but certainly no later than to-morrow morning? I must beg that you will leave us undisturbed for the remainder of the evening.” He ceremoniously bowed, and then took his seat once more at table. Frau Kahle remained for a moment as if petrified in the semi-obscurity of the room. Then she hastily seized her châtelaine bag. Her hand tremblingly fingered its contents, and then she turned to the door and went out, slamming it behind her. The footfall of her retreating steps could be heard in the direction of her own room. After supper the first lieutenant stepped up to his writing-desk, lit the green shaded lamp, and sat down on a stool before it. Next he selected a large sheet of official note-paper, dipped his pen, and leaned back and reflected. For some time he thus concentrated his thoughts, and at last began to write. His spouse, meanwhile, with anxious aspect, sat on the sofa near a small table, busy with some embroidery, her fingers mechanically travelling to and fro; but every little while she cast a troubled glance towards her husband, whose pen went scratch, scratch, over the paper. At last he had finished the letter. Weil reclined pensively in his chair, and slowly read over and over what he had written. He made no alterations, but folded Frau Kahle’s note up with his own, and then enclosed both in a large yellow envelope, sealing it in the proper way. Then he locked up the document in a drawer of his desk, blew out the lamp, and took a seat on the sofa next to his wife, perusing attentively a newspaper. Frau Kahle departed the following morning by an early train. Nobody, not even the orderly, knew her destination. He had taken her trunk to the station, but she had not told him a word as to her future intentions. And neither by letter nor by word of mouth had she left a word of thanks or apology for her late hosts.