Squatting on her heels, Viola opened the letter. It was from Casimir: “I shall be with you at three o’clock this afternoon—and must be off again this evening. All news when we meet. I hope you are happier than I.—CASIMIR.” “Huh! how kind!” she sneered; “how condescending. Too good of you, really!” She sprang to her feet, crumbling the letter in her hands. “And how are you to know that I shall stick here awaiting your pleasure until three o’clock this afternoon?” But she knew she would; her rage was only half sincere. She longed to see Casimir, for she was confident that this time she would make him understand the situation.... “For, as it is, it’s intolerable—intolerable!” she muttered. It was ten o’clock in the morning of a grey day curiously lighted by pale flashes of sunshine. Searched by these flashes her room looked tumbled and grimed. She pulled down the window-blinds—but they gave a persistent, whitish glare which was just as bad. The only thing of life in the room was a jar of hyacinths given her by the landlady’s daughter: it stood on the table exuding a sickly perfume from its plump petals; there were even rich buds unfolding, and the leaves shone like oil. Viola went over to the washstand, poured some water into the enamel basin, and sponged her face and neck. She dipped her face into the water, opened her eyes, and shook her head from side to side—it was exhilarating. She did it three times. “I suppose I could drown myself if I stayed under long enough,” she thought. “I wonder how long it takes to become unconscious?... Often read of women drowning in a bucket. I wonder if any air enters by the ears—if the basin would have to be as deep as a bucket?” She experimented—gripped the washstand with both hands and slowly sank her head into the water, when again there was a knock on the door. Not the landlady this time—it must be Casimir. With her face and hair dripping, with her petticoat bodice unbuttoned, she ran and opened it. A strange man stood against the lintel—seeing her, he opened his eyes very wide and smiled delightfully. “Excuse me—does Fräulein Schäfer live here?” “No; never heard of her.” His smile was so infectious, she wanted to smile too—and the water had made her feel so fresh and rosy. The strange man appeared overwhelmed with astonishment. “She doesn’t?” he cried. “She is out, you mean!” “No, she’s not living here,” answered Viola. “But—pardon—one moment.” He moved from the door lintel, standing squarely in front of her. He unbuttoned his greatcoat and drew a slip of paper from the breast pocket, smoothing it in his gloved fingers before handing it to her. “Yes, that’s the address, right enough, but there must be a mistake in the number. So many lodging-houses in this street, you know, and so big.”