An angry man's voice answered to the accompaniment of a plane which said hwitcho—hwitcho—hwitch—hwitch—hitch—hitch.
And a long-drawn, rumbling mum-mum-mum-mum-mum-mum-mum-mum replied, seemingly anxious to calm the storm. But the plane spat and sneezed again its hwitch—hwitch, and immediately after a storm of Babili—bebili—bibili—bobili—bubili—bybili—bäbili—bö—broke out with fresh fury.
Falk guessed the subject under discussion, and a certain intonation gave him the idea that the dead baby was involved in the argument.
The whispering, occasionally interrupted by loud sobs, began again behind the door through which Struve had disappeared; finally it was pushed open and Struve appeared leading by the hand a woman who looked like a laundress; she was dressed in black, and her eyelids were red and swollen with weeping. Struve introduced her with all the dignity of a father of a family:
"My wife, Mr. Falk, my old friend."
Falk clasped a hand, hard as a beetle, and received a vinegary smile. He cast about for a few platitudes containing the words "wife" and "grief," and as he was fairly successful, he was rewarded by Struve with an embrace.
Mrs. Struve, anxious not to be left out in the cold, began brushing the back of her husband's coat.
"It's dreadful how you seem to pick up every bit of dirt, Christian," she said; "your back's always dusty. Don't you think that my husband always looks like a pig, Mr. Falk?"
There was no need for poor Falk to reply to this tender remark; behind the mother's back now appeared two heads, regarding the visitor with a grin. The mother patted them affectionately.
"Have you ever seen plainer boys before, Mr. Falk?" she asked. "Don't they look exactly like young foxes?"