ould have liked to wring her neck.

After those bad nights Wolfgang was still more unamiable, more
taciturn, more sulky, more reserved than ever. And he looked more
wretched.

"He's run down," said Paul Schlieben to himself. He did not say so
to his wife--why agitate her still more?--for he could see that she was
uneasy from the way she took care of him. She did not make use of words
or of caresses--those days were over--but she paid special attention to
his food; he was positively pampered. A man of his age ought to be much
stronger. His back no longer seemed to be so broad, his chest was less
arched, his black eyes lay deep in their sockets and had dark
lines under them. He held himself badly and he was always in very bad
spirits. His spirits, yes, his spirits, those were at the root of all
the evil, but no care could alter them and no medicine. The young
fellow was dissatisfied with himself, that was it, and was it any
wonder? He felt ashamed of himself.

And the situation in which he had found him rose up before his
father's mental vision with terrible distinctness.

He had let his wife wait downstairs for him--true, she had made a
point of going up with him, but he had insisted on her staying down in
the court-yard, that narrow, dark yard which smelt of fustiness and
dust--he had gone up alone. Three flights of stairs. They had seemed
terribly steep to him, his knees had never felt so tired before when
mounting any stairs. There was the name "Knappe." He had touched the
bell--ugh, what a start he had given when he heard the shrill peal.
What did he really want there? As the result of an anonymous letter he,
Paul Schlieben, was forcing his way in on strange people, into a
strange house? The blood surged to his head--and at that moment the
person opened the door in a light blue dressing-gown, no longer young,
but buxom, and with good-natured eyes. And by the gleam of a miserable
kitchen lamp, which lighted up the pitch-dark passage even at noon, he
had seen a smart top-coat and a fine felt hat hanging in the entrance,
and had recognised Wolfgang's things. So he was really there? There? So
the anonymous letter had not lied after all.

He did not know exactly what he had done after that; he only knew he
had got rid of some money. And then he had led the young man down the
stairs by the arm--that is to say, dragged him more than led him. Kate
had met them halfway. She had found the time too long downstairs,
open-m