Well, we got through somehow, but it was after eight o'clock when I ran down the snowy street back to the pension. The family were at supper and the anxious face of Mütterchen looked relieved as I opened the door.
"We thought you were lost, isn't it?" said the Herr Doktor, in what he considered unimpeachable English.
Fräulein Hartmann, looking charming in a light-blue gown which she had donned in honor of Lieutenant Blum, her aunt's guest that evening, jumped up and ran to meet me.
"I'm so glad you are here safe," said she. To her the idea of a girl being out alone after six o'clock was almost inconceivable.
"I myself was on the point of going in search of gnädiges Fräulein," said Lieutenant Blum, with a low bow, much rattling of sword, and that sneering smile which even his great black mustache fails to conceal.
"That was indeed kind of you, Herr Leutnant," I replied as sweetly as possible. "You really didn't think me lost, or kidnapped, or perchance murdered in cold blood, did you?" I added to Mütterchen, as I took my seat.
"I might have thought even such frightful things as those, had not our friend opposite insisted that you had been detained and that there was no need of 'putting up my umbrella till it rained,'" she answered.
I looked gratefully across the table at the Poet's Wife, who smiled understandingly back. Hers is one of those sunny, unselfish natures which, "when they have passed the door of Darkness through," leave the world a better place than they found it.
The serenity of perfect poise is such an enviable thing to possess! Alas, that it is so seldom found in people of a musical temperament! I can hardly imagine a placid Tschaikowsky or an unruffled Dvorák, can you?