He was really annoyed, she noticed it in the impatient tone of his voice, and then she suddenly lost courage. Oh, if he looked at her like that, so coldly, and if his voice sounded so repellent, how difficult it was to find the right word. But it must be done, he looked so pale and was so thin, his round face had positively become long. What had struck her before struck her with double force now, and she got a great fright. "Wolfgang," she said hastily, avoiding his glance almost with fear--oh, how he would accuse her, how reproachful he would be, and justifiably reproachful--"I must tell you at last--it's better--it won't surprise you much either. Do you still remember that Sunday it was the day of your confirmation--you--you asked us then----" Oh, what along introduction it was. She called herself a coward; but it was so difficult, so unspeakably difficult. He did not interrupt her with a single sound, he asked no questions, he did not sigh, he did not even move. She did not venture to turn her eyes, which were fixed on one point straight in front of her, to look at him. His silence was terrible, more terrible than his passion. And she called out with the courage of despair: "You are not our son, not our own son." He still did not say anything; did not make a single sound, did not move. Then she turned her eyes on him. And she saw how the lids fell over his tired, already glassy eyes, how he tore them open again with difficulty and how they closed once more, in short, how he fought with sleep. He could sleep whilst she told him this--this? A terrible feeling of disillusion came over her, but still she seized hold of his arm and shook him, whilst her own limbs trembled as though with fever: "Don't you hear--don't you hear me? You are not our son--not our own son." "Yes, I know," he said in a weary voice. "Leave me, leave me." He made a gesture as if to thrust her away. "And it--" her complete want of comprehension made her stammer like a child--"it does not affect you? It--it leaves you so cold?" "Cold? Cold?" He shrugged his shoulders, and his tired, dull eyes began to gleam a little. "Cold? Who says it leaves me cold--has left me cold?" he amended hastily. "But you two have not asked about that. Now _I_ won't hear anything more about it. I'm tired now. I want to sleep." He turned his back on her, turned his face to the wall and did not move any more. There she stood--he was already asleep, or at least seemed to be so. She waited anxiously a few minutes longer--would he, would he not have to turn once more to her and say: "Tell me, I'm listening now." But he did not turn. Then she crept out of the room like a condemned criminal. Too late, too late. She had spoken too late, and now he did not want to hear anything more about it, nothing more whatever. In her dull wretchedness the words "too late" hurt her soul as if they had been branded on it. * * * * * * * * * * * * *