It was Cilli's father, old Kreisel, who at Herr Schmidt's "Come in!" stepped into the room.
"What is it, Kreisel?" asked Uncle Ernst "But, my good man, what an extraordinary get up! Are you going to a funeral?"
The old man's attire seemed to justify Uncle Ernst's question. His little bald head only just appeared above the stiff collar of his old-fashioned, long-tailed coat, while his boots, on the contrary, at the end of the short shabby black trousers, had full liberty. He carried in his hands a tall chimney-pot hat, with a very narrow brim, of the most antiquated fashion, and a pair of gloves whose past lustre had faded with time as the colour had faded out of his shrunken face, the careworn, wasted look of which was only too well suited to his attire.
"In truth I am going to a funeral," he answered with his low, tremulous voice.
"Well then, be off!" said Uncle Ernst.
"Whose is it?"
"My own."
Uncle Ernst stared. "Are you mad, old friend?"
"I think not," answered Kreisel; "but I will speak to you at a more convenient time."
"To your own funeral?" repeated Uncle Ernst. "I am not in the humour for jokes. Wait a bit, Reinhold! And now out with it, Kreisel! What is the matter? What do you want?"