here Cousin von Briest met them and proposed
that they should make use of the two hours before the departure of the
Stettin train to pay a visit to the Panorama and then have a little
luncheon together. Both proposals were accepted with thanks. At noon
they returned to the station, shook hands heartily and said good-by,
after both Effi and her husband had extended the customary invitation,
"Do come to see us some day," which fortunately is never taken
seriously. As the train started Effi waved a last farewell from her
compartment. Then she leaned back and made herself comfortable, but
from time to time sat up and held out her hand to Innstetten.

It was a pleasant journey, and the train arrived on time at the
Klein-Tantow station, from which a turnpike led to Kessin, ten miles
away. In the summer time, especially during the tourist season,
travelers were accustomed to avoid the turnpike and take the water
route, going by an old sidewheel steamer down the Kessine, the river
from which Kessin derived its name. But the "Phoenix"--about which the
wish had long been vainly cherished, that, at some time when there
were no passengers on board, it might justify its name and burn to
ashes--regularly stopped running on the 1st of October. For this
reason Innstetten had telegraphed from Stettin to his coachman Kruse:
"Five o'clock, Klein-Tantow station. Open carriage, if good weather."

It certainly was good weather, and there sat Kruse in the open
carriage at the station. He greeted the newly arrived couple with all
the prescribed dignity of a first-class coachman.

"Well, Kruse, everything in order?"

"At your service, Sir Councillor."

"Then, Effi, please get in." As Effi was doing as bid, and one of the
station porters was finding a place for a small satchel by the
coachman, in front, Innstetten left orders to send the rest of the
luggage by the omnibus. Then he, too, took his seat and after
condescendingly asking one of the bystanders for a light called to
Kruse: "Drive on, Kruse." The carriage rolled quickly over the rails
of the many tracks at the crossing, then slantingly down the slope of
the embankment, and on the turnpike past an inn called "The Prince
Bismarck." At this point the road forked, one branch leading to the
right to Kessin, the other to the left to Varzin. In front of the inn
stood a moderately tall, broad-shouldered man in a fur coat and a fur
cap. The cap he took off with great deference as the Distri