She thought of the company at her brother-in-law's, and it was amazing how remote from the present time it all seemed--the entire little town and all who lived there. The young waiter brought an ice-tub with the wine. At that moment it occurred to Bertha that Emil had certainly been there before, many a time, with other women. That, however, was a matter of tolerable indifference to her. They clinked glasses and drank. Emil embraced Bertha and kissed her. That kiss reminded her of something ... what could it have been, though?... Of the kisses she had received when a young girl?... Of the kiss of her husband?... No.... Then it suddenly occurred to her that it was exactly like the kisses which her young nephew Richard had lately given to her. The waiter came in with fruit and pastry. Emil put some dates and a bunch of grapes on a plate for Bertha. "Why don't you say something?" she asked. "Why do you leave me to do all the talking? And you know you could tell me so much!" "I?..." He slowly sipped the wine. "Why, yes, about your tours." "Good Heavens, one town is just like all the others. You must not, of course, lose sight of the fact that I only rarely travel for my own pleasure." "Quite so, of course." During the whole time she had not given a thought to the fact that it was Emil Lindbach, the celebrated violin virtuoso, with whom she was sitting there; and she felt bound to say: "By the way, you are playing in Vienna soon. I should be very glad to hear you." "Not a soul will hinder you from doing so," he replied drily. It passed through her mind that it would really be very much nicer for her to hear him play, not at the concert, but for herself alone. She had almost said so, but then it occurred to her that that would have meant nothing else than: "I will come with you"--and, who could say, perhaps very soon she would go with him. It would be as easy for her as ever, if she had had some wine.... Yet, not so, the wine was affecting her differently from usual--it was not the soft inebriation which made her feel a little more cheerful; it was better, lovelier. It was not the few drops of wine that made it so; it was the touch of his dear hand, as he stroked her brow and hair. He had sat down beside her and he drew her head onto his shoulder. How gladly would she have fallen asleep like that.... Yes, indeed, nothing else did she desire.... Then she heard him whisper: "Darling."... She trembled softly. Why was this the first time? Could she not have had all this before? Was there a grain of sense in living as she did?... After all, there was nothing wicked in what she was doing now.... And how sweet it was to feel the breath of a young man upon her eyelids!... No, not--not the breath of a young man... of a lover....