She had found a cloth to scour with, and what she had never done before in her life she did now, for she lay on her knees like a servant and rubbed the floor, and crept about in front of the bed and under the bed, and stretched out her arms so as to be sure to get into every corner. Nothing must be forgotten, everything must be flooded with fresh, clean, purifying water. Everything in the room seemed to her to be soiled--as though it were damaged and degraded--the floor, the furniture, the walls. She would have preferred to have washed the wall-paper too, that beautiful deep-coloured wallpaper, or to have torn it off entirely. She had never worked like that in her life before. Her pretty morning-gown with the silk insertions and lace clung to her body with the perspiration of exertion and fear. The dress had dark spots on the knees from slipping about in the wet, the hem of the train had got into the water; her hair was dishevelled; it had come undone and was hanging round her hot face. Nobody would have recognised Frau Schlieben as she was now. At last, thank goodness! Kate looked round with a sigh of relief; the air in the room was quite different now. The fresh wind that blew in through the open window had cleared everything. Only he, he did not suit amid all that cleanliness. His forehead was covered with clammy sweat, his cheeks were livid, his lips swollen, cracked, his hair bristly, standing straight up in tufts. Then she washed him, too, cooled his forehead and dried it, rubbed his cheeks with soap and a sponge, fetched a brush and comb, combed and smoothed his hair, ran quickly across to her room, brought the Florida water that stood on her dressing-table and sprinkled it over him. Now she had only to put on another bed-spread. She could not do any more, it was too difficult for her to lift him. For he did not awake. He lay there like a tree that had been hewn down--dead, stiff, immovable--and noticed nothing of the trembling hands that glided over him, that pulled and smoothed now here, now there. She did not know how long she had been engaged with him; a knock at the door brought her thoughts back to the present. "Who is there?" "I, Friedrich." "What do you want?" "The master wishes to know if you will come down to dinner, ma'am." "To dinner--the master?" She pressed her hands to her head. Was it possible? Paul back already--dinner-time? It could not be. "What time is it?" she cried in a shrill voice. She never thought of looking herself at the watch that lay on the table beside the bed; and it would not have been any use--the expensive gold watch, the gift he had received at his confirmation, had stopped. It had not been wound up. "It's half past two, ma'am," said Friedrich outside. And then the man, who had been there for years, ventured to inquire respectfully: "Is the young master not well, as he has not got up? Could I perhaps be of some use, ma'am?"