This evening for the first time I smoked my nightly cigar alone; and never did I smoke one in deeper reflection.
"The doctor was right," I said to myself, as I threw the stump into the dying coals on the hearth, and rose with a sigh from my easy-chair; "perfectly right. I must wait for a favorable opportunity."
But as it usually happens in such cases, a week passed, two weeks passed, and the opportunity did not occur. Nor did the necessity seem very urgent, as Hermine had not spoken again of going to the theatre. She still felt unwell, and the doctor's visits were more frequent than formerly.
"Have you told your wife yet who the Bellini is?" he asked me one day.
"Not yet."
"She knows it."
"Impossible!"
"She knows it; I give you my word upon that."
"Has she said so to you?"
"No."