Among them were two ladies. They wore their black lustreless hair so low on their foreheads that their eyes resembled torches burning out of a dark forest. They had gold rings in their ears, and their low-cut dresses were clasped by barbaric brooches. They glanced up at Lilly's tall figure with envious admiration, and then began an animated conversation in whispers. Dr. Rennschmidt bowed to them cordially, with an air that seemed to say he had nothing to conceal and nothing to confess. He told her that they were mandoline singers belonging to a troupe of Neapolitans, whose manager had thrown them over, and they were now in search of an engagement. "Where am I?" Lilly thought. It was like a dream, as if magic wings had wafted her into a strange country; only the genial "Prosit Neujahr," on the placard swinging close to her, reminded her that Germany, Berlin, and the Potsdamer Bridge were not far off. "I have come here every day since my return," Lilly's friend said, as they made themselves at home in a corner. "Nostalgia for the South still afflicts me. The most perfect German cooking has no charms for me now, and I must have my Chianti, To-day we will, however, drink something else, because the palate has to acquire a taste for Chianti." He beckoned to the waiter, who was called Francesco, just as if he had stepped out of a romance about knight-errantry and brigands--and after a lively discussion between the two a dusty, light-coloured bottle was produced and put on the table. Then came dishes of curious-looking macaroni and meat bathed in orange-red sauce. Lilly could not remember that she had ever tasted anything half so good, and she told him so; in fact, altogether she had never enjoyed herself so much in all her life. But this she did not tell him. They wound up with a dish of fruit--called "_giardinetto_"--mandarins, dates, and gorgonzola cheese. The yellow wine, which had a perfume of nutmegs, frothed in the glasses, radiating tiny bubbles. Leaning back against the wall, she let her eyes rest dreamily on her new friend. He turned his head from side to side with quick little movements rather like a bird. Everywhere he found something to observe, to remark upon, to absorb him; or perhaps he did it all to be specially entertaining to her. His eyes sparkled with eagerness and zest in life; the wrinkles on his forehead rose up and down, and what she had mistaken for a cloud of wrath was, after all, only the expression of his brain's boiling activity.