But the husband and wife did not speak about it to each other. If he could only serve his time as a soldier, thought Paul Schlieben to himself. He hoped the restraint and the severe regulations in force in the army would regulate his whole life; what they, his parents, had not been able to effect with all their care, the drill would be able to do. Wolfgang was to appear before the commissioners in April. At present, during the winter, he certainly kept to the office hours more regularly and more conscientiously, but oh, how wretched he often looked in the morning. Terribly pale, positively ashen. "Dissipation." The father settled that with a shake of his head, but he said nothing to his son about it; why should he? An unpleasant scene would be the only result, which would not lead to anything, and would probably do more harm. For they no longer met on common ground. And thus things went on without any special disturbance, but all three suffered nevertheless; the son too. Frida thought she noticed that Wolfgang was often depressed. Sometimes he went to the theatre with her, she was so fond of "something to laugh at." But he did not join in her laughter, did not even laugh when the tears rolled down her cheeks with laughing. She could really get very vexed that lie had so little sense of what was amusing. "Aren't you enjoying yourself?" "Hm, moderately." "Are you ill?" she asked, quite frightened. "No." "Well, what's the matter with you then?" Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked so forbidding that she did not question him any more, but only pressed his hand and assured him she was amusing herself splendidly. Gradually these invitations to the theatre, which had mostly ended so pleasantly in a little intimate talk in some cafe or other, ceased. Frida saw her friend very rarely at all now; he no longer fetched her from business, and did not turn up at her home. "Who knows?" said Frau Laemke, "perhaps he'll soon get engaged. He has probably somebody in his mind's eye." Frida pouted. She was put out that Wolfgang never came. What could be the matter with him? She commenced to spy on him; but not only out of curiosity. And somebody else made inquiries about his doings too--that was his mother. At least, she tried to find out what he was doing. But she only discovered that he had once been seen in a small theatre with a pretty person, a blonde, whose hair was done in a very conspicuous manner. Oh, that was the one at Schildhorn. She still saw that fair hair gleam in the dusk--that was the one who was doing all the mischief.