“Otto,” said the Freule one morning, “I should like to speak to you.”
He stopped, with his hand on the door-knob.
“Yes?” he answered, his thoughts intent on the morning’s disagreeable work.
“Otto, I have considered, and”—the Freule fidgeted—“under present circumstances I should wish to—pay seven florins more per week for my board.” The Freule gasped.
“Why?” asked the Dowager, sharply, from the top of the breakfast-table.
“Don’t interfere, Cécile. I see in the paper that prices everywhere are being raised.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Otto, turning away.
“Well, I intend to do it, so now you know. And, Cécile, you need not make any difference.”
“Difference?”
“Yes, in the menus.”