"My resignation has not yet gone into effect," he answered, looking at me grimly, but avoiding my eyes, as if I were the cause of all his trouble. "At any rate, my leave has expired. I have to go to Berlin." I asked if he could not get an extension. But I noticed he did not want it--was suffering with homesickness for the club. We all know what that is. Besides, he had to sell his furniture, he explained, and arrange with the creditors. "Well, then, go, my boy," I said, and hesitated an instant whether I should confide my new joy to him. But I was afraid of the silly face I'd make while confessing, so I refrained. Another thing that kept me was a feeling stowed away deep down at the bottom of my heart--I was counting on a rejection. I feared it, and I hoped for it, too. The feeling was something like--but what's the use of delving into feelings? The facts will tell the story. Exactly a week later in the morning the postman brought me an envelope addressed in _her_ handwriting. At first I was dreadfully afraid. Tears sprang into my eyes. And I said to myself: "There, old man, now you've been relegated to the scrap heap." At the same time a peaceful renunciation came over me, and while opening the envelope I almost wished I might find in it just a plain mitten. But what I read was: "Dear Friend:-- I have thought the matter over, as you wished. I am confirmed in my decision. I shall expect to see you to-day when you call on my father. Iolanthe." Happy! Well, of course, I was happy--at such a moment--it goes without saying. But, then, how ashamed I was. Yes, gentlemen, ashamed, ashamed to face a soul. And when I thought of all the dubious, sarcastic looks that people would soon be casting at me, I felt I'd rather back out of the business. But the hour had come. Up and be doing. First I beautified myself. I cut my chin twice shaving. One of the stable-boys had to ride two miles to the chemist's to get me some flesh-coloured court-plaster. My waistcoat was drawn in so tight I could scarcely breathe, and my poor old sister nearly went wild trying to give my necktie that careless, free-and-easy look I wanted. And all the time I kept thinking and thinking--it never left me for an instant: "Hanckel, Hanckel, you're making an ass of yourself." But my entry into Krakowitz was grand--two dapper greys of my own breeding--silver collar trimmings--a new landau lined with wine-coloured satin. No prince in the world could have come a-wooing more proudly. But my heart was thumping at my ribs in abject cowardice. The old man received me at the door. He behaved as if he hadn't the faintest suspicion of what was doing. When I asked him for a talk in private, he looked surprised and made a face, like a man scenting a "touch" from an unexpected quarter.