And then, when she realised that in a few minutes she was to meet him who was the object of her hopes, everything began to dance before her eyes. She rose to her feet, and nearly reeled. She saw the young couple, who had previously walked past her, leave the gardens by the road leading to the Burgplatz. She went off in the same direction. Yonder, she saw the dome of the Museum, towering and gleaming. She decided to walk slowly, so as not to appear too excited or even breathless when she met him. Once more she was seized with a thrill of fear--suppose he should not come? But whatever happened, she would not leave Vienna this time without seeing him. Would it not, perhaps, even be better if he did not come, she wondered. She was so bewildered at that moment ... and supposing she was to say anything silly or awkward.... So much depended on the next few minutes--perhaps her whole future.... There was the Museum before her. Up the steps, through the entrance, and she was standing in the large, cool vestibule. Before her eyes was the grand staircase and, yonder, where it divided to right and left, was the colossal marble statue of Theseus slaying the Minotaur. Slowly she ascended the stairs and, as she looked round about her, she grew calmer. The magnificence of her surroundings captivated her. She looked up at the galleries which, with their golden railings, ran round the interior of the dome. She came to a stop. Before her was a door, above which appeared in gilt letters: "Dutch School." Her heart gave a sudden convulsive throb. Before her eyes lay the row of picture galleries. Here and there she saw people standing before the pictures. She entered the first hall, and gazed attentively at the first picture hanging at the very entrance. She thought of Herr Rupius' portfolio. And then she heard a voice say: "Good morning, Bertha." VI It was his voice. She turned round. He was standing before her, young, slim, elegant and rather pale. In his smile there was a suggestion of mockery. He nodded to Bertha, took her hand at the same time, and held it for a while in his own. It was Emil himself, and it was exactly as if the last occasion on which they had spoken to one another had been only the previous day. "Good morning, Emil," she said. They gazed at each other. His glance was expressive of much: pleasure, amiability, and something in the nature of a scrutiny. She realised all this with perfect clearness, whilst she gazed at him with eyes in which nothing but pure happiness was shining. "Well, then, how are you getting on, Bertha?" he asked. "Quite well." "It is really funny that I should ask you such a question after eight or nine years. Things have probably gone very differently with you." "Yes, indeed, that's true. You know, of course, that my husband died three years ago." She felt obliged to assume an expression of sorrow. "Yes, I know that, and I know, too, that you have a boy. Let me see, who could it have been that told me?"