“I had not meant to say anything—about what happened to me, that is. I, as a matter of fact, have something particularly to complain of. But I had nothing to say about it. Only, since you are all discussing it, I thought you might not quite understand if I didn’t—I don’t think, Renée, that Herr Kreisler was quite in his right mind this evening. He doesn’t strike me as _méchant_. I don’t think he was really in any way accountable for his actions. I don’t, of course, know any more about him than you do. This evening was the first time I’ve ever exchanged more than a dozen words with him in my life.” This was said in the sing-song of quick parentheses, eyebrows lifted, and with little gestures of the hand. “He caught hold of me—like this.” She made a quick snatching gesture at Fräulein Lipmann, who did not like this attempt at intimidation or velvety defiance. “He was kissing me when you came up,” turning to one or two of the others. This was said with dramatic suddenness and “determination,” as it were: the “kissing” said with a sort of deliberate sententious brutality, and luscious disparting of the lips. “We couldn’t make out _whatever_ was happening⸺” one of them began. “When you came up I felt quite dazed. I didn’t feel that it was a man kissing me. He was mad. I’m sure he was. It was like being mauled by a brute.” She shuddered, with rather rolling eyes. “He _was_ a brute to-night—not a man at all. He didn’t know what he was doing.” They were all silent, answerless at this unexpected view of the case. It only differed from theirs in supposing that he was not _always_ a brute. She had spoken quickly and drew up short. Their silence became conscious and septic. They appeared as though they had not expected her to stop speaking, and were like people surprised naked, with no time to cover themselves. “I think he’s in great difficulties—money or something. But all I know for certain is that he was _really_ in need of somebody⸺” “But what makes you think, Bertha⸺” one of the girls said, hesitating. “I let him in at Renée’s. He looked strange to me: didn’t you notice? I noticed him first there.” Anastasya Vasek was still with them. She had not joined in the talk about Kreisler. She listened to it with attention, like a person newly arrived in some community, participating for the first time at one of their discussions on a local and stock subject. Kreisler would, from her expression, have seemed to be some topic peculiar to this gathering of people—they engaged in a characteristic occupation. Bertha she watched as one would watch a very eloquent chief airing his views at a clan-meeting. “I felt he was _really_ in need of some hand to help him. He seemed just like a child. He was ill, too. He can’t have eaten anything for some time. I am sure he hasn’t. He was walking slower and slower—that’s how it was we were so far behind. It was my fault, too—what happened. At least⸺”