"I have come to you at the recommendation of a friend of both of us, who prepared you for this visit," she began, inwardly rejoiced to be able once again to play the _grande dame_. A mirror hung opposite, and Lilly regarded with satisfaction the discreet wreath of violets about her lilac turban, and the violet-coloured tailor-made suit. Her image looking affably from the frame reminded her of a picture by some portrait painter of high life. Mr. Dehnicke silently drew up a chair for her. An expectant distrust was to be detected in his eyes in place of the consternation of the first seconds. Evidently he did not dare to place her in the class in which, to judge from her appearance, she belonged. His head was set a bit obliquely on his neck, inclining to the left, as if he had recently had an attack of lumbago. This posture increased Lilly's impression that he suspected her. She looked down at her brocade purse, and acted as if she could scarcely suppress a smile. He became still more confused. "May I ask," he stammered, "who that friend--? I don't recall." In perplexity he turned over the visiting card his clerk had brought him. Lilly rebelled at having to utter her former lover's name, and so expose her shame to the man who lived behind those respectable porcelain flower pots. "Is it possible," she asked hesitatingly, "that you do not recall having received a letter from a comrade in your regiment, in which he asks you to interest yourself in a lady who--" Mr. Dehnicke jumped to his feet and reddened to the roots of his hair. His eyes grew bright and round between his stretched lids and threatened to pop from their sockets. "I beg pardon," he faltered. "You probably refer to a letter which I received nearly a year and a half ago from Lieutenant von Prell?" "I do." "My lady," he cried, completely upset. "If I had suspected that my lady--" So much simple respect was depicted on his face that Lilly's consciousness of aristocracy was heightened quite a bit. But so it could not remain. "I call myself Lilly--Czepanek," she whispered, blushing in her turn, though delighting in the expression "call myself," which permitted the assumption that she had voluntarily chosen to use her maiden name. Fright at the indelicacy of which he thought himself guilty was plainly to be read in his features. "I beg pardon," he said, "I should have remembered that you must have gone through many difficulties." Then as if shot from a pistol: "Why didn't you come sooner? I waited and waited--a month--several months--then I took to looking for you--in vain. I even thought of going to a detective bureau, but I feared overstepping the bounds of reserve--" Lilly nodded with a smile of appreciation. "Unfortunately I did not dream of another name. So I gave up the hope of ever having the great pleasure--"