She felt very sorry for her Tante Ilde, losing her money and being old and alone, for Kaethe and her children, for Irma and the boys, and sometimes she took them things to eat. Quite often she found her way to Mizzie's shop where she was always sure of a warm welcome, for undeniably Liesel understood the niceties of Mizzi's business. She sometimes even thought of going in with her, but she felt that she was, momentarily at least, better employed in using Otto's salary to the fullest advantage, and "with things as they are," (which was Liesel's nearest approach to intellectual participation in the national misfortunes) _that_ took all her time and thought. Standing in those everlasting cues, running as she said, "from Pontius to Pilatus," bringing everything home herself, though the aged porter at the corner of the Kohlmarkt and the Wallnerstrasse always helped when it was a question of coals, glad to serve once more a handsome woman,--handsome in the traditional way he so thoroughly understood. Liesel would listen, quite truly interested, as they walked along to his tales of other days when gentlemen were "cavaliers" and ladies hard to win; of whilom young attachés at the not distant Foreign Office, that imposing Ballplatz, who had been wont to send him with love letters and flowers and bonbons. The telephone had given the first blow to such romantic expressions of love; and as for the War and the Peace, they were equally and finally calamitous.... She could well afford to greet her aunt lovingly, and her "dearest aunties" and her "how sweet you look" and her "I'm so glad to have you," came gushingly out of the abundance of her heart. She was so happy that she could add cheer to her food without the slightest effort. The table was already spread. Aunt Ilde's involuntary though delicate glance showed her three places set, just the same for all; three wine glasses, three plates, three knives even, (on those knife-rests that she had so fortunately added to the coffee spoons and napkin rings when Liesel was married,) knives meant meat, but she then and there made up her mind not to take any--perhaps a little wine. The carafe stood on the table filled with a Voslauer, a pleasant, light, open wine, gently quite gently warming to the stomach. It grew on those very slopes about Baden. Then she bethought herself cheerfully of the moment, when she would say to Liesel: "Now you stay with Otto, I'm going to do the dishes, but I must have an apron."