She flushed crimson with temper.
"Nothing is easier than to make fun of others," she said fiercely. "It is the resource of the ignorant."
Then, after the fashion of angry women, having said her say, she stalked away. If there had been a door to bang, she would certainly have banged it. However, she did what she could under the circumstances: she pushed a curtain roughly aside, and passed into the concert-room, where every night of the season's six months, a scratchy string orchestra entertained the Kurhaus guests. She left the Disagreeable Man standing in the passage.
"Dear me," he said thoughtfully. And he stroked his chin. Then he trudged slowly up to his room.
"Dear me," he said once more.
Arrived in his bedroom, he began to read. But after a few minutes he shut his book, took the lamp to the looking-glass and brushed his hair. Then he put on a black coat and a white silk tie. There was a speck of dust on the coat. He carefully removed that, and then extinguished the lamp.
On his way downstairs he met Marie, who gazed at him in astonishment. It was quite unusual for him to be seen again when he had once come up from table-d'hôte. She noticed the black coat and the white silk tie too, and reported on these eccentricities to her colleague Anna.
The Disagreeable Man meanwhile had reached the Concert Hall. He glanced around, and saw where Bernardine was sitting, and then chose a place in the opposite direction, quite by himself. He looked somewhat like a dog who has been well beaten. Now and again he looked up to see whether she still kept her seat. The bad music was a great irritation to him. But he stayed on heroically. There was no reason why he should stay. Gradually, too, the audience began to thin. Still he lingered, always looking like a dog in punishment.
At last Bernardine rose, and the Disagreeable Man rose too. He followed her humbly to the door. She turned and saw him.
"I am sorry I put you in a bad temper," he said. "It was stupid of me."