"I should not have expected this of Gustav."
"I had not seen him for a long time. Oh, he has sunk in that wretched love to the ears. But he is a strong fellow—and I am sorry for him. Tell me, thou art more skilled in this than I am: is he very sick?"
"Oh, he is not well."
"What is it? asthma?"
Yosef nodded. "Excessive work, grief."
"Too bad."
All at once steps were heard on the stairs, the door opened, Gustav walked in.
He was changed beyond recognition. The skin on his face had become wonderfully white, it had grown transparent. From his face came a certain coldness, as from a corpse; a yellowish shade shone from his forehead, which seemed to be of wax. His lips were white; his hair, beard, and mustache looked almost black as compared with that pallor. He was like a man who had passed through a long illness, and on his face had settled certainty concerning himself and a kind of despairing resignation.
Yosef, a little astonished, a little confused, did not know perhaps how to begin. Gustav brought him out of the trouble.
"I have come to thee with a prayer," said he. "Once thou didst promise not to visit the widow; withdraw that promise."