He worked hard for five minutes, looked up data in books, and at length very gently pushed over to me, across the shining top of the table, a properly written out estimate for the recitals my imaginary friend intended to give. The total amount, as represented by English money, was £325.
“Thank you so much,” said I; “I will call to see you to-morrow perhaps. But I must first of all get an estimate from Herr Dorn.”
“Who is Herr Dorn?” he asked, in surprise.
I did not know: his name had slid into my mind that very moment, and I was not quite sure whether, in the whole world, there was such a name. Then, greatly daring, I greatly lied.
[223]
]“He is a cousin of Sigurd Falk,” said I.
As I left, he gave me another cigar, shook my hand most warmly, and looked me in the eyes very keenly.
. . . . . . . .
Every night Dawson and I used to go either to the opera or to some concert, and, when the music was finished, which was generally very late, we would perhaps go to some supper-party or other.
I have a good appetite myself, but really some of the German ladies’ gastronomic feats were superb. I remember myself one night sitting fascinated and awestruck as I saw a Wagner-heroine type of woman, full-breasted, high-browed and majestic, eat plateful after plateful of oysters, until I began to wonder how it was so many oysters came to be in Berlin at one and the same time.
. . . . . . . .