Hildegarde did not venture to contradict, she could not indeed do so without convicting her father of lying. The major had finished his beer. "What a miserable drink this is for lunch, it makes one feel heavy and spoils one's appetite. What do you say to our celebrating this meeting with half a bottle of champagne?" His wife had no wish to do so. She feared the expense; but, on the other hand, she knew it was useless to oppose him, and, perhaps, indeed it would help to raise their credit a little if the proprietor of the restaurant said that they had drunk champagne and paid for it in cash. So she agreed. "Yes, certainly, but please let it be French champagne." "Of course," said the major; "do you suppose I would celebrate the joyful news that Hilda brings us with miserable frothy German champagne?" and he called to the waiter. It was on Hildegarde's lips to say: "Spare your money; you have no occasion to rejoice in what I have just told you, it was a pure fabrication." But she remained silent. Why should she worry her parents? Perhaps somehow or other a miracle would happen and it would all come right in the end. "No, bring a whole bottle of Pommery," corrected the major; "my son is soon coming, he will also be thirsty, and it's not worth while beginning with half a bottle." The wine came, the glasses clinked, and Hildegarde was asked to tell her news again. "Not here," she begged; "there is no more uncomfortable place to stay in than a waiting-room, and especially in a little provincial town."