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imparted gentle wavy movements to the soft material of her jacket, to her hips and back. She stopped in front of a small shop in a quiet side-street and laid a hesitant, pensive hand on the door-handle. She went in. He came nearer. He looked through the window. She was sitting at the table, face turned towards him, trying on gloves. She was leaning on her left hand, her fingers were outspread in patient expectation. She slipped on the new leather, closed her hand into a fist and opened it again, stroked the left hand caressingly with the right, and unfolded joints and fingers in attractive and absorbing play.
    She left the shop. He had no time to move away. Her first glance fell on him and, as he involuntarily removed his hat, she stood there as if she intended to acknowledge him, as if she was considering whether she should assume the indifferent smile suited to acquaintances one has forgotten. Eventually, as he made no move, she turned to go. He came a step closer. She was visibly embarrassed. The urge to fly seized him together with the fear of ridicule. The awareness that he must say something the very next moment was surpassed by the silent avowal that he could think of nothing to say. The soft oval of her brown face confused him by its proximity, like her startled dark gaze and the delicate bluish skin of her eyelids, and even the small parcel she held in her hand. 'If only she didn't continue to smile,' he thought. 'I must make it clear to her at once that I am not one of her acquaintances.' So, hat in hand, he said: 'I can't help it if you're alarmed. The situation was too much for me. I followed you unintentionally. You left the shop before I expected. I accosted you without knowing you. I have therefore misled you without intending to do so. Please forgive me.'
    As he was speaking he was surprised by the calmness and precision of his words. Her smile vanished and reappeared. It was like a light that comes and goes.
    'I quite understand,' she said.
    Friedrich bowed, she likewise attempted an acknowledgment, and both laughed.
    He was surprised to find that she was not married. He could not understand now why he had taken her for a married woman. Also, it was not her carriage in which she had been travelling that August day. The carriage belonged to her friend, Frau G., to whom she had been invited. Was she a student? No, she only attended the lectures of Professor D., who was a family friend. Her father, as is the way of some old gentlemen, did not permit her to study. She would certainly have had her way if her mother had been alive. Her mother would have been helpful. And a transient sadness passed over her face.
    She stood in front of a cab-rank, she was due at the theatre, she had an appointment. Already Friedrich saw a coachman jump down from his box and strip the blankets from the back of his horse.
    'I should very much like to come with you, if you've the time,' said Friedrich quickly.
    She laughed. He was embarrassed. 'Let's go then,' she said, 'but right away.'
    Now it was done he could no longer speak calmly. The talk was only on neutral topics, the hard winter and Professor D., the tedious public and private balls, the meanness of rich people and the poor street lighting. She vanished into the theatre.
    He abandoned himself to an animated aimlessness, a sort of holiday. He entered the foyer in which she had disappeared. It was a quarter of an hour before the start of the performance. One heard the carriages driving up, the horses' solemn neighing, the clatter of their hoof-beats and the murmured exhortations of the coachmen. The foyer wafted an odour of perfume, powder, clothes, a confusion of greetings. Many men were waiting there, leaning against the walls, removing their hats, bowing more or less deeply, only bowing or smiling while bowing. He could deduce the status of those who entered from the mien and attitude of those who awaited them. The people stood in their corners like living mirrors. But they