The sight of a young couple who passed her, pressed close to one another under an open umbrella, aroused in her a yearning for Emil. She did not resist it, for she already realized that everything within her was in such a state of upheaval that every breath brought some fresh and generally unexpected thing on to the surface of her soul. It was growing dusk when Bertha entered Herr Rupius' room. He was sitting at the table, with a portfolio of pictures before him. The hanging lamp was lighted. He looked up and returned her greeting. "Let me see; you, of course, came back from Vienna on the evening of the day before yesterday," he said. It sounded like a reproach, and Bertha had a sensation of guilt. "Well, sit down," he continued; "and tell me what happened to you in Vienna." "Nothing at all," answered Bertha. "I went to the Museum, and I have seen the originals of several of your pictures." Herr Rupius made no reply. "Your wife is coming back this very evening?" "I believe not"--he was silent for a time, and then said, with intentional dryness: "I must ask your pardon for having told you recently things which I am sure could not possibly have been of any interest to you. For the rest, I do not think that my wife will return to-day." "But.... She told me so herself, you know." "Yes, she told me also. She simply wanted to spare me the farewell, or rather the comedy of farewell. By that I don't mean anything at all untruthful, but just the things which usually accompany farewells: touching words, tears.... However, enough of that. Will you be good enough to come and see me at times? I shall be rather lonely, you know, when my wife is no longer with me." All this he said in a tone the sharpness of which was so little in keeping with the meaning of his words that Bertha sought in vain for a reply. Rupius, however, continued at once: "Well, and what else did you see besides the Museum?" With great animation, Bertha began to tell all sorts of things about her visit to Vienna. She also mentioned that she had met an old friend of her schooldays, whom she had not seen for a long time. Strangely, too, the meeting had taken place exactly in front of the Falckenborg picture. While she was speaking of Emil in this way without mentioning his name, her yearning for him increased until it seemed boundless, and she thought of writing to him again that day. Then she noticed that Herr Rupius was keeping his gaze fixed intently on the door. His wife had come into the room. She went up to him, smiling. "Here I am, back again!" she said, kissing him on the forehead; and then she held out her hand to Bertha. "Good evening, Frau Rupius," said Bertha, highly delighted. Herr Rupius spoke not a word, but signs of violent agitation could be seen on his face. His wife, who had not yet taken off her hat, turned away for a moment, and then Bertha noticed how Herr Rupius had rested his face on both his hands, and had begun to sob inwardly.