Jean-Christophe, trussed up in an absurd coat, which made him look like a country parson, arrived at the house quite ill with shyness. He tried to persuade himself that Frau and Fräulein Kerich had had no time to remark his features on the day when they had first seen him. A servant led him down a long corridor, thickly carpeted, so that his footsteps made no sound, to a room with a glass-paneled door which opened on to the garden. It was raining a little, and cold; a good fire was burning in the fireplace. Near the window, through which he had a peep of the wet trees in the mist, the two ladies were sitting. Frau Kerich was working and her daughter was reading a book when Jean-Christophe entered. When they saw him they exchanged a sly look.
"They know me again," thought Jean-Christophe, abashed.
He bobbed awkwardly, and went on bobbing.
Frau von Kerich smiled cheerfully, and held out her hand.
"Good-day, my dear neighbor," she said. "I am glad to see you. Since I heard you at the concert I have been wanting to tell you how much pleasure you gave me. And as the only way of telling you was to invite you here, I hope you will forgive me for having done so."
In the kindly, conventional words of welcome there was so much cordiality, in spite of a hidden sting of irony, that Jean-Christophe grew more at his ease.
"They do not know me again," he thought, comforted.
Frau von Kerich presented her daughter, who had closed her book and was looking interestedly at Jean-Christophe.
"My daughter Minna," she said, "She wanted so much to see you."
"But, mamma," said Minna, "it is not the first time that we have seen each other."