"I think they distressed him more than usual. And he was—he wasn't quite himself."
Von Rittenheim stared persistently out of the window, his face almost entirely turned away from her. He lost not a word of what she said, and at the same time there ran through his mind memories of their boyhood days together, and of their adventures at the gymnasium and the university. Then their rivalry over Hilda. With what careless ease Maximilian had won her away from his brother, just for the pleasure of victory. He felt again a dash of the old bitterness.
"You mean he was drunk?" he asked, bluntly.
She raised her tiny hands before her face as if she were warding off a blow. Friedrich hardly could hear her "Yes."
Her action suggested an idea to von Rittenheim.
"Tell me, Hilda." He stammered over the question. "Did he—did Max ever strike you?"
Without a word Hilda pushed back the hair that fell over her forehead at one side, and showed, close to the roots, a scar.
Friedrich gazed at her in horror.
"You poor, poor girl!"
Again the glow of satisfaction warmed her face.