“Oh, no. It was pretty good, was it? With the zither it depends mostly on the atmosphere; whether it is hot, or cold, or wet, or dry, or on I knew not what. It is an accident if one plays well. Good-night to you. Good-night, Lotta. Good-night, Sir.” And he took off his hat, and bowed,—bowed, as it were, expressly to Fritz Planken.
“Herr Crippel,” said Lotta, “one word with you.” And she dropped behind from Fritz, and returned to the musician. “Herr Crippel, will you meet me at Sperl’s to-morrow night?”
“At Sperl’s? No. I do not go to Sperl’s any longer, Lotta. You told me that Marie’s friend was coming to-night, but you did not tell me of your own.”
“Never mind what I told you, or did not tell you. Herr Crippel, will you come to Sperl’s to-morrow?”
“No; you would not dance with me, and I should not care to see you dance with anyone else.”
“But I will dance with you.”
“And Planken will be there?”
“Yes, Fritz will be there. He is always there; I cannot help that.”
“No, Lotta; I will not go to Sperl’s. I will tell you a little secret. At forty-five one is too old for Sperl’s.”
“There are men there every Sunday over fifty—over sixty, I am sure.”