What was pounding in his ears so clamorously? The dashing waves by the sea . . . the driver was kissing Hilda . . . What surprised him was that the sight did not shock him and he looked on and laughed; he was not even jealous; there was no resentment in his heart. He laughed and told Frau Rodbertus not to mind it—Frau Rodbertus, in her long gown and slippers, was seated in his lap and calling him sweetheart, and he was married to the widow . . . As he was trying to recall when he had married her Hilda and Eugenie came in, arm in arm. But how they were dressed! Barefooted, with short skirts of unbleached linen and loose blouses, like the reapers; and then Uncle Leopold—it was Uncle Leopold but he wore a beard like Aaron Hirsch—rushed in and waved a stick at him—the stick looked like an axle . . . He stirred and said to himself he did not know why he could not fall asleep, then stirred again, opened his eyes and beheld day-light. He leaned out of bed, reached for his watch on a chair close by, and jumped out. He had overslept. XIII. Eugenie’s image persisted in intruding upon him. In fact, he found himself thinking more of Eugenie than of Hilda; there was more tenderness in his heart when thinking of Eugenie than when thinking of Hilda. And every time he glanced at that omnipresent Aaron Hirsch—Aaron Hirsch had again seen him with Eugenie—he thought of Eugenie. Aaron had said nothing to him about her but he could read something in his rolling, roguish eyes. While copying entries into the ledger he did it mechanically, his mind wandering in other regions. He was visualizing those sweet moments with Eugenie in the dark street and experiencing the sensation over again. A few days later Albert was summoned to his uncle’s private room. Albert was in a grave mood because of the return of a few poems which he had sent to an editor at Munich. He found Uncle Leopold at his secretary, austere and domineering. “Take a seat.” He said this in a commanding tone. Albert sat down, feeling the worthlessness of life more keenly. “I have something of the gravest importance to say to you,” Uncle Leopold commenced, his eyes averted. He then paused. Albert caught his breath and waited. “It’s about your general conduct,” he snapped. “They tell me awful things about you.” “I’ll try to be careful about my work in the bank,” Albert said contritely. For the moment Albert’s pride was gone. His pride would always sink with the rejection of his manuscripts. “I don’t care so much about your work,” the banker said with an irritable wave of his hand. “These mistakes can be corrected. It’s your life mistakes. No one but yourself can correct those.” The banker again paused. Albert looked at his uncle puzzled. He could not fathom the cause of the present complaint. “You have been seen in bad company,” the banker resumed in a more serious tone. “The nephew of Leopold Zorn must not bee seen running around with dissolute women.”