His soft mood had disappeared long ago, it had flown as soon as he took the first step into the room; now he was in the mood not to stand anything whatever. They had insulted Frida. "Where does she live?" his father asked. "You would like to know that, I daresay." His son laughed scornfully; it gave him a certain satisfaction to withhold her address, they were so curious. They should never find it out. It was not at all necessary to tell them. He threw his head back insolently, and did not answer. O God, what had happened to the boy! Kate stared at him quite terrified. He had changed completely, had become quite a different being. But then came the memory--she had loved him so much once--and the pain of knowing that she had lost him entirely and for ever. "Wolfgang, don't be like that, I beseech you. You know we have your welfare at heart, Wolfgang." He measured her with an inexplicable look. And then he looked past her into space. "It would be better if I were out of it all!" he jerked out suddenly, spontaneously. It was meant to sound defiant, but the defiance was swallowed up in the sudden recognition of a painful truth. CHAPTER XVI They had agreed that Wolfgang should not live at the villa with them any longer. True, he was still very young, but the time for independence had come, his parents realised. Two prettily furnished rooms were taken in the neighbourhood of the office--Wolfgang was to take a much more active part in the business now--otherwise he would be left to himself. This coming home so late at night, this responsible control--no, it would not do for Kate to worry herself to death. Paul Schlieben had taken this step resignedly. And it seemed as though the days at the Schliebens' villa were really to be quieter, more peaceful. It was winter, and the snow was such a soft protecting cover for many a buried hope. Wolfgang used to come and visit them, but not too often; besides, he saw his father every day at the office. It never seemed to enter his head that his mother would have liked to see him more frequently. She did not let him perceive it. Was she perhaps to beg him to come more frequently? No, she had already begged much too much--for many years, almost eighteen years--and she told herself bitterly that it had been lost labour. When he came to them, they were on quite friendly terms with each other; his mother still continued to see that his clothes were the best that could be bought, his shirts as well got up as they could be, and that he had fine cambric night shirts and high collars. That he frequently did not look as he ought to have done was not her fault; nor was it perhaps the fault of his clothes, but rather on account of his tired expression, his weary eyes and the indifferent way in which he carried himself. He let himself go, he looked dissipated.