Every evening Philippina wanted to know something about the American. “Tell me about the American,” she would say.
One evening, quite late, Dorothea came into Philippina’s room with nothing on but her night-gown. Agnes and little Gottfried were asleep. “The American has a box at the theatre to-morrow evening. If you call for me you can see him,” she whispered.
“I am bursting with curiosity,” replied Philippina.
For a while Dorothea sat in perfect silence, and then exclaimed: “If I only had money, Philippin’, if I only had money!”
“I thought the American had piles of it,” replied Philippina.
“Of course he has money, lots of it,” said Dorothea, and her eyes flashed, “but—”
“But? What do you mean?”
“Do you think men do things without being compensated?”
“Oh, that’s it,” said Philippina reflectively, “that’s it.” She crouched on a hassock at Dorothea’s feet. “How pretty you are, how sweet,” she said in her bass voice: “God, what pretty little feet you have! And what smooth white skin! Marble’s got nothing on you.” And with the carnal concupiscence of a faun in woman’s form she took Dorothea’s leg in her hand and stroked the skin as far as the knee.
Dorothea shuddered. As she looked down at the cowering Philippina, she noticed that there was a button missing on her blouse. Through the opening, just between her breasts, she saw something brown. “What is that on your body there?” asked Dorothea.