"Good morning, Bertha."
VI
It was his voice. She turned round. He was standing before her, young, slim, elegant and rather pale. In his smile there was a suggestion of mockery. He nodded to Bertha, took her hand at the same time, and held it for a while in his own. It was Emil himself, and it was exactly as if the last occasion on which they had spoken to one another had been only the previous day.
"Good morning, Emil," she said.
They gazed at each other. His glance was expressive of much: pleasure, amiability, and something in the nature of a scrutiny. She realised all this with perfect clearness, whilst she gazed at him with eyes in which nothing but pure happiness was shining.
"Well, then, how are you getting on, Bertha?" he asked.
"Quite well."
"It is really funny that I should ask you such a question after eight or nine years. Things have probably gone very differently with you."
"Yes, indeed, that's true. You know, of course, that my husband died three years ago."
She felt obliged to assume an expression of sorrow.