This went on for some weeks, and Specht fell into a state of excitement which even the basses found reprehensible.
One morning Pix was standing as usual on the ground floor, when a plump, pretty lady, with nut-brown eyes, and enveloped in beautiful furs, entered the house, and in an irate tone of voice inquired for Mr. Schröter.
Pix informed her that he was not then at home, adding, with the air and tone of a field-marshal, that he was his representative.
After some reluctance to tell her tale to any other than Mr. Schröter had been overcome by the polite decision of Mr. Pix, the lady preferred her complaint against one of the clerks in that office who persecuted her with letters and poems, and unworthily made her name public in the daily papers.
The whole thing flashed upon Pix at once. "Can you give me the gentleman's name?"
"I do not know his name," said the widow; "he is tall and has curly hair."
"Gaunt in figure and a large nose, eh?" inquired Pix. "Very well, madam; from this day forth you shall have no further annoyance. I will be answerable for that."
"Still," recommenced the lady in the furs, "I should wish Mr. Schröter himself—"
"Better not, madam. The young man has behaved toward you in a manner for which I can find no adequate terms. Yet your kind heart will remember that he did not mean to offend. He wanted sense and tact, that was his offense. But he was really in earnest; and since I have had the honor to know you, I find it natural." He bowed. "I condemn him, as I said before, but I find it natural."
The pretty widow stood there embarrassed, and Pix proceeded to say that her forgiveness would be a source of happiness to the whole establishment.