She pressed and pressed in breathless undertone, fascinated by something. Family dramas, of all dramas, she had the expertest interest in.
“You remember the time I had to send three letters to the old devil⸺?”
“Of course! Three months ago, you mean?” Suzanne had taken a near and serious interest in Otto’s financial arrangements. She remembered dates well, apart from that.
Otto did not proceed for some time. She stared quizzingly and patiently past the tip of his nose.
“He then asked me to give up art. He told me of two posts in German firms that were vacant. That was her doing, the swine! One was a station-restaurant business.”
“You refused!”
“I didn’t reply at all.”
In this his methods were very similar to his father’s. The elder Kreisler had repeatedly infuriated his son, calculating on such effect, by sending his allowance only when written for, and even then neglecting his appeal for several days. It came frequently wrapped up in bits of newspapers, and his letters of demand and expostulation were never answered. On two occasions forty marks and thirty marks respectively had been deducted, merely as an irritative measure.
“Dîtes! Why don’t you write to your stepmother?”