Bertha took up the newspaper again and was about to read on, but by that time it was too dark. She rose to her feet and called the maid. The lamp was brought in and the table laid for supper. Bertha ate her meal with Fritz, the window remaining open. That evening she felt an even greater tenderness for her child than usual; she recalled once more to memory the times when her husband was still alive, and all manner of reminiscences passed rapidly through her mind. While she was putting Fritz to bed, her glance lingered for quite a long time on her husband's portrait, which hung over the bed in an oval frame of dark brown wood. It was a full-length portrait; he was wearing a morning coat and a white cravat, and was holding his tall hat in his hand. It was all in memory of their wedding day. Bertha knew for a certainty, at that moment, that Herr Klingemann would have smiled sarcastically had he seen that portrait. Later in the evening she sat down at the piano, as was a not infrequent custom of hers before going to bed, not so much because of her enthusiasm for music, but because she did not want to retire to rest too early. On such occasions she played, for the most part, the few pieces which she still knew by heart--mazurkas by Chopin, some passages from one of Beethoven's sonatas, or the Kreisleriana. Sometimes she improvised as well, but never pursued the theme beyond a succession of chords, which, indeed, were always the same. On that evening she began at once by striking those chords, somewhat more softly than usual; then she essayed various modulations and, as she made the last triad resound for a long time by means of the pedal--her hands were now lying in her lap--she felt a gentle joy in the melodies which were hovering, as it were, about her. Then Klingemann's observation recurred to her. "With you music must take the place of everything!" Indeed he had not been far from the truth. Music certainly had to take the place of much. But everything--? Oh, no! What was that? Footsteps over the way.... Well, there was nothing remarkable in that. But they were slow, regular footsteps, as though somebody was passing up and down. She stood up and went to the window. It was quite dark, and at first she could not recognize the man who was walking outside. But she knew that it was Klingemann. How absurd! Was he going to haunt the vicinity like a love-sick swain? "Good evening, Frau Bertha," he said from across the road, and she could see in the darkness that he raised his hat. "Good evening," she answered, almost confusedly. "You were playing most beautifully." Her only answer was to murmur "really?" and that perhaps did not reach his ears. He remained standing for a moment, then said: "Good night, sleep soundly, Frau Bertha." He pronounced the word "sleep" with an emphasis which was almost insolent. "Now he is going home to his cook!" thought Bertha to herself.