"And she has no wreath?" said the same woman whose critical eye had shortly before looked so severely at Frau Dörr's figure.
"Wreath?... Wreath?... Didn't you know then?... Haven't you heard anything whispered about?"
"Oh, so that is it. Of course I have. But, my dear Kornatzki, if everybody paid attention to rumors there would be no more wreaths and Schmidt on the Friedrichsstrasse might as well shut up shop at once."
"Yes, yes," laughed Kornatzki, "so he might. And after all, for such an old man! At least fifty years have gone over his head and he looks as if he might be going to celebrate his silver wedding at the same time."
"Yes indeed. That is just how he looked. And did you see his old-fashioned high collar? I never saw anything like it."
"Well, he could use it to kill her with, if there are any more rumors."
"Yes, he can do that."
And so the talk ran on a little longer, while the organ prelude could already be heard from the church.
The next morning Rienäcker and Katherine were sitting at breakfast, this time in Botho's workroom, both windows of which stood wide open to let in the air and light. Some mating swallows were flying and twittering all about the yard, and Botho, who was in the habit of giving them crumbs every morning, was just reaching for the basket again for the same purpose when the hearty laughter of his young wife who for the last five minutes had been absorbed in her favorite newspaper, caused him to set the basket down again.
"Now, Katherine, what is it? You seem to have found something uncommonly nice."