"I—I just thought I would," she murmured.
"You do not look ill. You were not ill this morning."
"It's—psychological," murmured Ingeborg unnerved, and laying hold of the first word that darted into her undisciplined brain.
"Psycho—?"
"Are you ill, Robert?" she asked, suddenly anxious. "Why have you come?"
"My dear wife, that is my affair," said Herr Dremmel, who was particularly annoyed and puzzled by her presence.
"Oh," murmured Ingeborg. She had never yet heard herself called his dear wife, and felt the immensity of her relegation to her proper place.
He fluttered the pages of the Fliegende Blätter; she held on tighter to what seemed to be her only friend, her umbrella.
"Did you walk?" he asked presently, letting off the question at her like a gun.
"Yes—oh, yes," said Ingeborg, with hasty meekness.