"Let me see; you, of course, came back from Vienna on the evening of the day before yesterday," he said.
It sounded like a reproach, and Bertha had a sensation of guilt.
"Well, sit down," he continued; "and tell me what happened to you in Vienna."
"Nothing at all," answered Bertha. "I went to the Museum, and I have seen the originals of several of your pictures."
Herr Rupius made no reply.
"Your wife is coming back this very evening?"
"I believe not"—he was silent for a time, and then said, with intentional dryness: "I must ask your pardon for having told you recently things which I am sure could not possibly have been of any interest to you. For the rest, I do not think that my wife will return to-day."
"But…. She told me so herself, you know."
"Yes, she told me also. She simply wanted to spare me the farewell, or rather the comedy of farewell. By that I don't mean anything at all untruthful, but just the things which usually accompany farewells: touching words, tears…. However, enough of that. Will you be good enough to come and see me at times? I shall be rather lonely, you know, when my wife is no longer with me."
All this he said in a tone the sharpness of which was so little in keeping with the meaning of his words that Bertha sought in vain for a reply.