Frau Wahnschaffe was on one of her rare outings. She was driving in her electric car toward Schwanheim, when she caught sight of a group of young men at the entrance to the polo-grounds. Among them was one who reminded her strongly of Christian. His slenderness and noble grace of gesture gave her so strong an illusion of Christian’s presence that she bade her chauffeur halt, and requested her companion to walk to the gate and inquire after the young man’s identity. The companion obeyed, and Frau Wahnschaffe, still watching the group, waited very quietly. The companion had no difficulty in getting the information, and reported that the young man was an Englishman named Anthony Potter. “Ah, yes, yes.” That was all Frau Wahnschaffe said, and her interest was extinguished. That very evening a special delivery letter was brought her. She recognized Christian’s handwriting, and everything danced before her eyes. The first thing she was able to see was the name of a small, third-rate Frankfort hotel. Gradually her sight grew steadier, and she read the letter: “Dear Mother: I beg you to grant me an interview in the course of the forenoon to-morrow. It is too late for me to come to you to-day; I have travelled all day and am tired. If I do not hear from you to the contrary, I shall be with you at ten o’clock. I am confident that you will be so good as to see me alone.” Her only thought was: “At last!” And she said the words out loud to herself: “At last!” She looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock. That meant twelve hours. How was she to pass those twelve hours? All her long life seemed shorter to her than this coming space of time. She went downstairs through the dark and empty rooms, through the marble hall with its great columns, through the gigantic, mirrored dining-hall, in which the last, faint light of the long summer evening was dying. She went into the park, and heard the plaint of a nightingale. Stars glittered, a fountain plashed, and distant music met her ear. She returned, and found that only fifty minutes had passed. An expression of rage contorted her cold and rigid face. She considered whether she should drive to the city to that shabby little hostelry. She dismissed that plan at once. He was asleep; he was weary with travel. But why is he in such a place, she asked herself, in a humble house, among strange and lowly people? She sat down in an armchair, and entered upon her bitter duel with the slothfulness of time, from eleven to midnight, from midnight to the first grey glint of dawn, from that first glint to the early flush of the young morning, thence to full sunrise, and on to the appointed hour. III Wherever Johanna Schöntag went she was treated with loving-kindness. Even her relatives with whom she lived treated her with tender considerateness. This tended to lower rather than to raise her in her own self-esteem. She considered subtly: “If I please these, what can I possibly amount to?”