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Prinzel,’ he began. ‘You will have observed, I think, that I am not wasting away. I do not think, therefore, that you need concernyourself about whether I am getting enough to eat. But thank you, none the less, for your interest in this matter.’
    Prinzel continued to look out of the window. ‘Yes, Herr von Igelfeld, that is clear. You are not in imminent danger of starvation. Nobody is suggesting that. However …’ He paused, turning round to face von Igelfeld. ‘However, it is true, is it not, that you are not exactly overweight. In fact, you are thin. And it is also true that your clothes …’
    Von Igelfeld waited for Prinzel to continue. Prinzel, in his view, was in no position to criticise his clothes. He himself liked wearing a completely unsuitable fawn-coloured waistcoat that von Igelfeld had long wanted to discuss with him. Perhaps this would be his opportunity.
    ‘Yes, my clothes, Herr Prinzel? I am interested to hear about my clothes. It is always useful to get the advice of one whose own sartorial expertise is so clearly of such a high standard. Your waistcoat, for instance—’
    He did not have the chance to finish. ‘There is nothing wrong with your clothes,’ Prinzel continued hurriedly. ‘When other people attack them, I never hesitate to defend your wardrobe.’
    Von Igelfeld’s eyes narrowed. Why, he wondered, should others attack his clothes? It was not a comfortablediscovery to make – to find out that there were people, unnamed people, who were in the habit of singling out one’s clothes for adverse comment.
    ‘Who are these people?’ he asked.
    Prinzel waved a hand towards the window, as if to take in the entire population of central and eastern Bavaria. ‘Oh, there are many of them. People of no consequence, no doubt. I cannot list them all at present; they are too numerous.’ He looked at von Igelfeld almost apologetically. ‘But it is not your clothes that I wish to discuss. That would be very rude. Nobody likes to hear their clothes described as fit only for a second-hand shop or for distribution to the less fortunate members of society. Nobody likes that sort of comment, do they? No, it is not your clothes I wish to talk about, it is rather a very direct question which my wife asked me to raise.’
    Von Igelfeld waited. He liked Ophelia Prinzel. He liked Prinzel, too, and it was only for this reason that he was putting up with this increasingly trying personal conversation. Had it been Unterholzer raising such issues, the outcome would certainly have been quite different. The niceties would have been observed, of course – they always were – but Unterholzer would have been left in no doubt at all about the inappropriateness of what was being said.
    ‘This question, Herr Prinzel: I am most interestedto hear it. Has it anything to do, I wonder, with the work of the Institute?’
    Prinzel shook his head. ‘Oh, no, it has nothing to do with that.’
    ‘Well then?’
    Prinzel looked embarrassed. ‘It is not a question that I would normally ask of anybody. In my view, such matters are strictly private. But you know how women are.’
    Von Igelfeld nodded, which surprised Prinzel. He does not know that, he thought. He knows nothing about that subject, poor Moritz-Maria.
    ‘Of course you do,’ said Prinzel. ‘Well, my wife, Frau Prinzel—’
    ‘I am well aware of her name,’ interjected von Igelfeld. ‘I would not expect your wife to be called Frau Unterholzer, would I?’
    They both smiled at the joke, which went some way towards dissipating the tension that had grown up through this conversation.
    ‘Of course not,’ said Prinzel. ‘It would be very strange if I went round saying to people, “This is my wife, Frau Unterholzer.” That would be very strange indeed!’
    Von Igelfeld laughed. It was a very good joke, and he felt proud of having made it in the first place. Prinzel had a good sense of humour, he thought, but rarely managed to originate a comment as