“You must be a millionaire,” he said, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “A fur coat, a warm room, steaming coffee in the morning. Are you a poet or a publisher?” “Just a poetic genius like yourself,” laughed Albert. Krebsfleisch looked suspiciously at his host. There was something in Albert’s voice that was always puzzling. One could never tell whether he was jesting or was in earnest. “You can’t possibly drink all this coffee alone?” said the visitor. “No, I ordered enough for both of us,” responded Albert seriously. And he removed the cup from the saucer and filled them both to the brim. “Which would you rather have, the cup or the saucer?” he asked. Krebsfleisch’s bulging eyes skipped from one to the other, with a peculiar glitter. “I always drink my coffee from a saucer,” he finally replied, and taking hold of it with both hands carried it to his lips. “You may have all the bread and butter—I don’t care for any this morning,” Albert said nonchalantly. Krebsfleisch stared at Zorn incredulously. How was it possible that one did not care for bread and butter! Overlooking the knife he spread the butter on a slice of bread with his finger and began to devour it ravenously. “That’s how my mother used to spread butter on my bread.” His words were half drowned in the fullness of his mouth! A moment later he sighed. “Those were happy days in my native village! My mother had a cow and there was always bread and butter and cheese in our house, but she insisted she must make an educated man of me. It serves her right. I have eaten her out of house and all. She inherited silver spoons from her father—her father was a _Beamter_—and I have devoured them all. The ladle goes for this semester’s tuition.” Albert heaved a sigh. He had devoured his mother’s pearls and his grandfather had consumed a prayer-book with silver clasps during his last term at the medical school. There was now a bond of sympathy between the two. There was mist in Albert’s eyes. He caught his breath but could not speak. His first impulse was to have fun with the queer stranger but instead sympathy filled his heart. “There is a pair of trousers I don’t need,” Albert said presently. He was too sensitive to make the offer directly. “Yes, they might fit me,” Krebsfleisch glanced at the pantaloons thrown over a chair by the bed. Then he stood up and measured the length of the legs against his. “Perhaps a little tight around the calves, but they’ll do.” A few coppers jingled in the trouser-pockets. There was a questioning look in his eyes. “Yes, the contents goes with the trousers,” said Albert with seeming absentmindedness. Krebsfleisch at once removed his own tattered trousers unceremoniously and pulled on those offered him. “Your father must be very rich,” he was saying as he was stretching the waist line to fit his rotundity. “Very, very rich,” stammered Albert with a sad smile on his face. “And you never go hungry—not for a single day?”