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you do so. It is only common courtesy, I believe.’
    Unterholzer had snorted. ‘I did not think that a view is a private thing, Professor von Igelfeld,’ he had said. ‘Perhaps you will feel the need to correct me, but I must point out that the trees and hills at which I am looking do not belong to you. And if they do not belong to you, then I fail to see why I should ask your permission to contemplate them.’ He threw a challenging glance at von Igelfeld, before adding, ‘Or perhaps I’m missing something?’
    Von Igelfeld had been unable to answer this, and had been obliged to get up from his desk and draw the blind, so that Unterholzer could not continue to look at the view uninvited. ‘Forgive me, Herr Unterholzer,’ he said. ‘But I find the sunlight a little bit fierce, and, as I’m sure you will agree, it is disconcerting to be blinded by light
when one is trying to get on with one’s work
.’
    Prinzel, of course, needed no such direct reprimands. He could look at the view as much as he liked, as far as von Igelfeld was concerned. Indeed, he would happily provide him with a chair at the window so that he could enjoy the view in comfort, if that proved to be necessary.
    ‘Yes,’ mused Prinzel. ‘There is no doubt but that marriage is a fascinating subject.’ He paused. ‘Don’t you agree?’
    ‘Of course,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘I am aware of that.I am proposing to read a bit more about it. I believe that Montaigne has something to say on it.’
    Prinzel raised an eyebrow. ‘Montaigne was the sort who would have something to say on … the physical side of marriage. But that is not the issue. The real issue is the pleasure that marriage brings in the domestic sense. I cannot tell you how comfortable it is not to have to iron one’s shirts.’
    Von Igelfeld glanced at Prinzel’s shirt, which was beautifully neat and smooth, with razor-like creases down the sleeves. Then he looked down at his own shirt, which was so badly looked after by his Polish housekeeper, who was becoming distinctly slipshod in her attention to his clothes.
    ‘You would perhaps benefit from that sort of attention,’ said Prinzel.
    ‘Perhaps,’ said von Igelfeld.
    ‘And then there are the delights of the table,’ went on Prinzel. ‘Did I tell you what I had for dinner last night? No? Coquilles St Jacques, followed by a very fine piece of Swiss beef. How about that?’
    Von Igelfeld looked up at the ceiling. He had enjoyed a heated-up can of soup and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich that he had bought from a small shop round the corner. ‘Very tasty, no doubt,’ he said. ‘Of course, there is a restaurant nearby that does that sort of thing. I sometimes go there.’
    ‘But imagine having it in your own home,’ said Prinzel. ‘It always tastes so much better than in a restaurant. And restaurants are always full of rather lonely people, I find. It’s often very melancholy.’
    Von Igelfeld said nothing. Prinzel did not intend to offend, but it was clear that von Igelfeld was one of these lonely people who could be encountered in restaurants. He was not lonely, of course; he had the
Zeitschrift
to keep him company and there were always new articles to read, but it was also undeniably true that when he went to restaurants he usually sat by himself. In fact, he always sat by himself, apart from one occasion when somebody had been put at his table because of a lack of a place elsewhere. That had been an interesting experience, with von Igelfeld snatching the opportunity to glance at his fellow diner from time to time and speculating mentally as to where he came from and what he did. He was a respectable-looking man with a pleasant, prosperous air to him, and von Igelfeld would have rather enjoyed a conversation with him – had they been introduced to one another, which they had not.
    He looked at Prinzel; he would have to allay his friend’s concerns. ‘I am quite satisfied with my domestic arrangements, Herr