But we agreed when he was gone that the loose locks, drooping over the laughing glance, suited him better than that neatly cropped propriety.
Days passed, and Karl was still not his old self. It became matter of public remark that his easy, short jacket, a mongrel kind of garment to which he was deeply attached, was discarded, not merely for grand occasions, but even upon the ordinary Saturday night concert, yea, even for walking out at midday, and a superior frock-coat substituted for it—a frock-coat in which, we told him, he looked quite edel. At which he pished and pshawed, but surreptitiously adjusted his collar before the looking-glass which the propriety and satisfactoriness of our behavior had induced Frau Schmidt to add to our responsibilities, pulled his cuffs down, and remarked en passant that “the ’cello was a horribly ungraceful instrument.”
“Not as you use it,” said we both, politely, and allowed him to lead the way to the concert-room.
A few evenings later he strolled into our room, lighted a cigar, and sighed deeply.
“What ails thee, then, Karl?” I asked.
“I’ve something on my mind,” he replied, uneasily.
“That we know,” put in Eugen; “and a pretty big lump it must be, too. Out with it, man! Has she accepted the bottle-nosed oboist after all?”
“No.”
“Have you got into debt? How much? I dare say we can manage it between us.”
“No—oh, no! I am five thalers to the good.”