In the centre of the little room stood a small table laid for three; by the wall was a blue velvet sofa, and opposite that hung a gilt framed oval mirror, before which Bertha took her hat off and, as she did so, she noticed that the names "Irma" and "Rudi" had been scratched on the glass. At the same time, she saw in the mirror Emil coming up behind her. He placed his hands on her cheeks, bent her head back towards himself, and kissed her on the lips. Then he turned away without speaking, and rang the bell. A very young waiter came in at once, as if he had been standing outside the door. When he had taken his order he left them, and Emil sat down. "Well, Bertha!" She turned towards him. He took her gently by the hand and still continued to hold it in his, when Bertha had taken a seat beside him on the sofa. Mechanically she touched her hair with her other hand. An older waiter came in, and Emil made his choice from the menu. Bertha agreed to everything. When the waiter had departed, Emil said: "Mustn't the question be asked: How is it that all this hasn't happened before to-day?" "What do you mean by that?" "Why didn't you write to me long ago?" "Well, I would ... if you had got your Order sooner!" He held her hand and kissed it. "But you come to Vienna fairly often!" "Oh, no." He looked up. "But you said something like that in your letter!" She remembered then, and grew red. "Well, yes ... often ... Monday was the last time I was here." The waiter brought sardines and caviar, and left the room. "Well," said Emil; "it is probably just the right time." "In what way?" "That we should have met again." "Oh, I have often longed for you." He seemed to be deep in thought. "And perhaps it is also just as well that things _then_ turned out as they did," he said. "It is on that very account that the recollection is so charming." "Yes, charming." They were both silent for a time. "Do you remember ..." she said, and then she began to talk of the old days, of their walks in the town-park, and of her first day at the Conservatoire. He nodded in answer to everything she said, held his arm on the back of the sofa, and lightly touched the lock of hair, which curled over the nape of her neck. At times he threw in a word. Then Emil himself recalled something which she had forgotten; he had remembered a further outing: a trip to the Prater one Sunday morning. "And do you still recollect," said Bertha, "how we ..." she hesitated to utter it--"once were almost in love with each other?" "Yes," he said. "And who knows ..." He was perhaps about to say: "It would have been better for me if I had married you"--but he did not finish the sentence. He ordered champagne. "It is not so long ago," said Bertha, "since I tasted champagne. The last time was about six months ago, at the party which my brother-in-law gave on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday."