Daniel remained silent for a while. Then he went up to Agnes, put his hand under her chin, lifted her head, and murmured: “And you? And you?”
Agnes frowned, and was afraid to look into his face. Suddenly she said: “To-day is the anniversary of mother’s death.” With that she looked at him fixedly.
“So?” said Daniel, sat down on the edge of the table, and laid his head in his hand. Some one was playing the piano in the living room. Since Daniel had taken the grand piano up to his room, Dorothea had rented a small one. The rhythmical movement of dancing couples could be heard quite distinctly.
“I’d like to leave this place,” said Agnes, as she threw a worm-eaten plum in the garbage can. “In Beckschlager Street there is a seamstress who wants to teach me to sew.”
“Why don’t you go?” asked Daniel. “It would be a very sensible thing to do. But what will Philippina say about it?”
“Oh, she doesn’t object, provided I spend my evenings and Sundays with her.”
The front door bell rang, and Agnes went out: there was some one to see Daniel. He hesitated, started toward the door, shook and stepped back, seized with trembling hand the kitchen lamp in order to make certain that he was not mistaken, for it was dark, but there could be no mistake. It was Benda.
They looked at each other in violent agitation. Benda was the first to reach out his hand; then Daniel reached out his. Something seemed to snap within him. He became dizzy, his tall, stiff body swung back and forth. Then he fell into the arms of his friend, whom he had lived without for seventeen years.
Benda was not prepared for such a scene; he was unable to speak. Then Daniel tore himself loose from the embrace of his old comrade, pushed the dishevelled hair back from his forehead, and said hastily: “Come upstairs with me; no one will disturb us up there.”