Frida thought she noticed that Wolfgang was often depressed. Sometimes he went to the theatre with her, she was so fond of "something to laugh at." But he did not join in her laughter, did not even laugh when the tears rolled down her cheeks with laughing. She could really get very vexed that lie had so little sense of what was amusing.
"Aren't you enjoying yourself?"
"Hm, moderately."
"Are you ill?" she asked, quite frightened.
"No."
"Well, what's the matter with you then?"
Then he shrugged his shoulders and looked so forbidding that she did not question him any more, but only pressed his hand and assured him she was amusing herself splendidly.
Gradually these invitations to the theatre, which had mostly ended so pleasantly in a little intimate talk in some café or other, ceased. Frida saw her friend very rarely at all now; he no longer fetched her from business, and did not turn up at her home.
"Who knows?" said Frau Lämke, "perhaps he'll soon get engaged. He has probably somebody in his mind's eye."
Frida pouted. She was put out that Wolfgang never came. What could be the matter with him? She commenced to spy on him; but not only out of curiosity.