"He's run down," said Paul Schlieben to himself. He did not say so to his wife--why agitate her still more?--for he could see that she was uneasy from the way she took care of him. She did not make use of words or of caresses--those days were over--but she paid special attention to his food; he was positively pampered. A man of his age ought to be much stronger. His back no longer seemed to be so broad, his chest was less arched, his black eyes lay deep in their sockets and had dark lines under them. He held himself badly and he was always in very bad spirits. His spirits, yes, his spirits, those were at the root of all the evil, but no care could alter them and no medicine. The young fellow was dissatisfied with himself, that was it, and was it any wonder? He felt ashamed of himself. And the situation in which he had found him rose up before his father's mental vision with terrible distinctness. He had let his wife wait downstairs for him--true, she had made a point of going up with him, but he had insisted on her staying down in the court-yard, that narrow, dark yard which smelt of fustiness and dust--he had gone up alone. Three flights of stairs. They had seemed terribly steep to him, his knees had never felt so tired before when mounting any stairs. There was the name "Knappe." He had touched the bell--ugh, what a start he had given when he heard the shrill peal. What did he really want there? As the result of an anonymous letter he, Paul Schlieben, was forcing his way in on strange people, into a strange house? The blood surged to his head--and at that moment the person opened the door in a light blue dressing-gown, no longer young, but buxom, and with good-natured eyes. And by the gleam of a miserable kitchen lamp, which lighted up the pitch-dark passage even at noon, he had seen a smart top-coat and a fine felt hat hanging in the entrance, and had recognised Wolfgang's things. So he was really there? There? So the anonymous letter had not lied after all. He did not know exactly what he had done after that; he only knew he had got rid of some money. And then he had led the young man down the stairs by the arm--that is to say, dragged him more than led him. Kate had met them halfway. She had found the time too long downstairs, open-mouthed children had gathered round her, and women had watched her from the windows. She was almost in despair: why did Paul remain upstairs such a terribly long time? She had had no idea, of course, that he had first to wake his son out of a leaden sleep in an untidy bed. And she must never, never know. Now they had got him home again, but was it a pleasure? To that Paul Schlieben had to give a curt "no" as answer, even if he had felt ever so disposed to forgive, ever so placable. No joy came to them from that quarter now. Perhaps they might have some later, much later. For the time being it would be best for the young man to serve his time as a soldier.