The next morning she again suffered torments. She had roused up Adele in the middle of the night, and learned that he had been and had gone away again, greatly perturbed.
Another day passed in nervous counting of the hours. She stood before the glass and arrayed herself for him despondently. She would have liked to throw herself at his feet, but in spite of this she resolved to adopt a certain melancholy quiet dignity in her manner towards him, which would nip suspicion in the bud and make him feel that she tallied with the ideal depicted in his verses. Had he not in them termed her flighty, flirtatious head a "head divine"? The mere thought made her feel holy.
At half-past seven the bell rang. She received him with a conventional "How do you do?" and smile; and the quiet melancholy hauteur, which she assumed, became her remarkably well, and effectually concealed her chagrin and anxiety.
His manner, too, was not so composed and frank as usual. At a single glance she perceived it. His eyes wandered beyond her with a curiously vacant expression.
"He guesses everything," a voice cried within her.
But she knew how to control her feelings. "I must apologise," she said, "that I was unable to keep my appointment with you yesterday."
"Is your friend better?" he inquired; and a smile of scornful incredulity played about his lips.
She now said anything that came into her head, and although she did not look at him, she knew that he did not believe a syllable.
"I also must apologise," he said, with the same covert scorn in smile and voice.
"Why, Dr. Rennschmidt?"