Anyway, he had behaved in a beastly fashion. That he did know. But stop! Had she not told him how badly she was treated by her husband—how neglected—had she not appealed to his gallantry and friendship? He felt uncertain. All he knew with certainty was that he had been a brute.
He buried his head in his brawny hands.
How had it been possible for him so to forget himself?
He knew:—champagne luncheon with that fellow Borgert,—a fellow whose powers of consumption had never been ascertained. Then, at dinner, that heavy “Turk’s blood”[7] to which Müller had to treat because of a lost bet. And then, worst of all, that thrice-condemned May bowl! And hadn’t they noticed it, the other fellows, and hadn’t they filled him up notwithstanding, or rather because, they saw that he couldn’t carry any more liquid conveniently? His big fist slammed the table.
There was a knock at the door.
The man with the sore conscience and the sorer head bade the unknown enter.
It was First Lieutenant Borgert, helmet in hand. He pretended astonishment at the evident condition of his comrade, but eyed him sharply, and then said:
“Pardon me if I come inopportunely, but a rather delicate matter induces me to see you this morning.”
“Officially or privately?” grunted Pommer.
“Both, if you wish it,” answered the other.