One Saturday night, when Isolde Schirmacher had gone out with one of her father’s journeymen, Christian rang the bell of the Hofmann flat, and begged Ruth to go to a nearby public telephone and summon a physician. Karen was evidently worse. She complained of no pain, but she was approaching a state of exhaustion. Ruth hastened to a certain Doctor Voltolini in Gleim Street who was known to her, and brought him back with her. The physician examined Karen. He was frank concerning his uncertainty with regard to her symptoms, and gave some general advice. Afterward Ruth and Christian sat together beside the bed. Karen stared at the ceiling. Her expression changed continually; her breathing was regular but rapid. At times she sighed; at times her glance sought Christian, but flitted past him. Once or twice she gazed searchingly at Ruth. Next day Christian came to see Ruth. She was alone; she was usually alone. When she unlatched the door which gave immediately upon the public hall she held a pen-holder in her hand. Her eyes still held the absorption of the occupation from which she had come. But when Christian asked whether he was interrupting her, she answered “No” with quieting assurance. He held out his hand. With a gently rhythmic gesture she put her smooth, young hand into his. She was voluble. Everything about her was touched with swiftness--her walk and glance, her speech and decisions and actions. “I must see the place where you live,” she announced to him, and on the next forenoon she visited his room. She was a little breathless, because, according to her custom, she had run down the stairs. She looked about her very frankly, and hid her seriousness under a cheerful vividness of behaviour. With boyish innocence of movement she sat down on the edge of the table, took an apple from her pocket, and began to nibble at it. She said she had mentioned Karen to an assistant whom she knew at the Polyclinic, and the lady had promised to come and examine Karen. Christian thanked her. “I don’t believe that medical help can do much for her,” he said. “Why not?” “I can’t tell you the reason. But where Karen is concerned, nature pursues a quite logical method.” “Perhaps you are right,” Ruth answered. “But that sounds as though you had little confidence in science. Am I right? Why, then, are you studying medicine?” “It’s the merest accident. Some one happened to call my attention to it as one of a hundred possible doors into the open. It seemed to me that it might lead to a very early usefulness. It offers a definite aim, and it is concerned with people--with human beings!” More pertinent reasons that stirred within him, and that he might have given her, were not yet ripe for speech, so he clung to a banality. “Yes, people,” said Ruth, and looked at him searchingly. After a while she added: “You must know a great deal; there must be a great deal in you.” “What do you mean by that?”