Philippina acted very nicely. She laughed when nothing amusing had taken place, rolled her eyes, spoke with puckered lips, shook her hips when she walked, and never lost a chance to show her learning. As they were coming home on the train, she said she felt she would like to ride in a chaise, but there would have to be two horses and a coachman with a tile hat. Benjamin Dorn replied that that was not an impossible wish, suggesting at the same time in his best brand of juvenile roguishness that there was a certain solemn ceremony that he would not think of celebrating without having a vehicle such as she had described. Philippina giggled, and said: “Oi, oi, you’re all right.” Whereupon Benjamin Dorn, grinning with embarrassment, looked down. Then they took leave of each other, for Agnes had fallen asleep in Philippina’s arms. How Philippina actually felt about the attention he was showing her would be extremely difficult to tell, though she acted as if she felt honoured and flattered. Benjamin Dorn was by no means certain of himself. Frau Hadebusch did all she could to bring Philippina around, but every time she made a fresh onslaught Philippina put her off. But Philippina had never sung as she had been singing recently, nor had she ever been so light and nimble of foot. Every day she put on her Sunday dress and trimmed it with her choicest ribbons. She washed her hands with almond soap, and combed her hair before the mirror. Bangs had gone out of fashion, so she built her hair up into a tower and looked like a Chinese. She visited Herr Carovius occasionally, and always found him alone, for Dorothea Döderlein had been sent by her father to Munich to perfect herself in her art. In broken words, with blinking eyes, from a grinning mouth and out of a dumb soul, she told Herr Carovius all about her affair with Benjamin Dorn, evidently believing that he was all fire and flame to know how she was getting along and what she had _in petto_. Herr Carovius had long since grown sick and tired of her, though he did not show her the door. He had reached the point where he heaved a sigh of relief when he heard a human voice, where he began to dread the stillness that ruled supreme within his four walls. No one came to see him, no one spoke to him, and he in turn no longer had the courage to speak to any one. His arrogance of former days had died a difficult death, and now he saw no way of making friends. If he went to the café, there was no one there whom he knew. The brethren of the Vale of Tears had been scattered to the four corners of the earth; a new generation was having its fling; new customs were being introduced, new topics discussed, and he was old. He found it hard to get along without Dorothea. He counted the days, waiting for her to return. He never opened the piano, because all music, and especially the music he loved, caused a melancholy depression to arise that filled the room with miasma.