In the beginning Lilly opposed these doings. Her senses demanded satisfaction of another sort. She had a vague feeling of mournfulness, as if each day of this new pleasure-filled life were carrying her farther and farther from those laurel-lined stairs to which her longing had gone out. But when she saw that her every wish for quiet encountered sulky resistance, she gave up her desires voluntarily, and kept her dreams for a better time, a time which would bring all her hopes to fruition, which--which--her fancy might venture no farther. Besides, it was always so fascinating, so dazzling. Lilly and Dehnicke were seldom left alone. In proceeding from place to place they would meet acquaintances, many of whom Lilly had seen at the carnival; and they would join company informally; or frequently, appointments were made beforehand. So there was quite a group of them, a little fixed nucleus, about which newcomers kept crystallising. One of the faithful was that sweet little brunette with the unsteady, glowing eyes and the foolish smile, who had wanted her friend and herself to form a little family group at supper with Lilly and Dehnicke. Her name was Mrs. Sievekingk. A vague desire for "life" had caused her to run away from her husband, a physician somewhere in Further Pomerania. After having gone through various experiences she was now living with the proprietor of a large steam laundry, a red-haired swell, thin as a broomstick, Wohlfahrt by name. He suffered from dyspepsia, and Mrs. Sievekingk always had ready in her hand-bag an assortment of pills and powders. But this touching, energetic care of him did not prevent her from deceiving him for the sake of any man who courted her. Everybody knew it and nobody blamed her. She was a poetess and had to create experiences to sing about. As a result many a lover who thought he was sinning with her in absolute secrecy would a few weeks later discover an exact portrait of himself as the hero of a passionate sketch or a murky love poem in some magazine of the latest school. There was Mrs. Welter also, the divorced wife of the renowned composer, whose round, russet face--she had returned lately from a mysterious pleasure trip to Algeria--formed a droll contrast to the golden aureole of her mass of dyed hair. It was dangerous to associate with her. She borrowed of everybody she met, although she was in comfortable circumstances, receiving an ample alimony from her former husband's rich relatives. Her constant state of want was due to her infinite goodness, which led her to turn over all she possessed and all her friends gave her to two cashiered lovers, each of whom in his way was a scamp. Nobody knew to whom she was attached at present. She was frequently seen with a district attorney, who was stiff as a poker and too formal to use a toothpick on his hollow teeth, and so sat for hours in silence busily rolling his tongue between his jaws.