"Tell me something about him, and all about your own life in general."
They sat down on the divan in the little saloon on front of the
Rembrandts.
"What have I to tell you about myself? There is nothing in it of the slightest interest. Rather, you tell me about yourself"—she looked at him with admiration—"things have gone so splendidly with you, you are such a celebrated man, you see!"
Emil twitched his underlip very slightly, as if discontented.
"Why, yes," she continued, undaunted; "quite recently I saw your portrait in an illustrated paper."
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.
"But I always knew that you would make a name for yourself," she added. "Do you still remember how you played the Mendelssohn Concerto at that final examination at the Conservatoire? Everybody said the same thing then."
"I beg you, my dear girl, don't, please, let us have any more of these mutual compliments! Tell me, what sort of a man was your late husband?"
"He was a good; indeed, I might say noble, man."
"Do you know, though, that I met your father about eight days before he died?"