XI.
Before leaving her bedroom the following morning, Ephie wrote on her scented pink paper a short letter, which began: "Dear Mr. Schilsky," and ended with: "Your sincere friend, Euphemia Stokes Cayhill." In this letter, she "failed to understand" his conduct of the previous evening, and asked him for an explanation. Not until she had closed the envelope, did she remember that she was ignorant of his address. She bit the end of her pen, thinking hard, and directly breakfast was over, put on her hat and slipped out of the house.
It was the first time Ephie had had occasion to enter the BUREAU of the Conservatorium; and, when the heavy door had swung to behind her, and she was alone in the presence of the secretaries, each of whom was bent over a high desk, writing in a ledger, her courage almost failed her. The senior, an old, white-haired man, with a benevolent face, did not look up; but after she had stood hesitating for some minutes, an under-secretary solemnly laid down his pen, and coming to the counter, wished in English to know what he could do for her. Growing very red, Ephie asked him if he "would ... could ... would please tell her where Mr. Schilsky lived."
Herr Kleefeld leaned both hands on the counter, and disconcerted her by staring at her over his spectacles.
"Mr. Schilsky? Is it very important?" he said with a leer, as if he were making a joke.
"Why, yes, indeed," replied Ephie timidly.
He nodded his head, more to himself than to her, went back to his desk, opened another ledger, and ran his finger down a page, repeating aloud as he did so, to her extreme embarrassment: "Mr. Schilsky—let me see. Mr. Schilsky—let me see."
After a pause, he handed her a slip of paper, on which he had painstakingly copied the address: "TALSTRASSE, 12 III."
"Why, I thank you very much. I have to ask him about some music. Is there anything to pay?" stammered Ephie.