"Four hundred marks the remainder?" asked the baker.
"Four hundred and twenty," said Ferdinand, "including discount.
Do you want a receipt?"
"Yes," replied the baker, "for the accountants."
In silence they wrote out the cheque and the receipt.
I remained by the window and looked around.
In the half-light of dusk the faces of the unclaimed and unpaid-for gleamed on the walls in their golden frames.
They looked like a ghostly assemblage from the other world and their steady gaze seemed turned upon the picture by the window, which was now to join them and over which the evening was shedding its last glow.
It was a queer atmosphere —the two bowed, writing figures at the table, the shadows and the many silent portraits.
The baker returned to the window.
His bloodshot eyes looked like glass marbles, his mouth was half-open, the under lip dropped so that one could see the stained teeth —it was both comic and sad the way he stood there.
On the floor above the studio someone started playing the piano, some finger exercise or other, always the same sequence .of notes. It sounded thin and complaining.
Ferdinand Grau was still standing by the table.
He lit himself a cigar.
The light of the match illumined his face.
The half-dark room appeared monstrously large and very blue against the little red glow.
"Can you still change something in the picture?" asked the baker.
"What is it?"
Ferdinand came forward.
The baker pointed to the jewellery.
"Could you take that out again?"
It was the enormous gold brooch he had asked for as an extra when he ordered the picture.
"Certainly," said Ferdinand, "as a matter of fact, it disturbs the face.
The portrait gains if it comes out."
"I think so too." He rambled around awhile. "What . would it cost?"
Ferdinand and I glanced at one another.
"It wouldn't cost anything," said Ferdinand generously; "on the contrary, you would stand to get something back. There would be less in it then, you see."
The baker lifted his head in surprise.
For a moment it looked as if he meant to go into the matter.
But then he said with finality:
"Ach, no, don't bother about that—after all, you did have to paint it."
"That is also true—"
We left.
On the stairs, as I saw the stooping back in front of me, I was a bit troubled about the baker and the tact that his conscience had smitten him in the matter of the swindle with the brooch.
I didn't quite like going for him with the Cadillac while he was in this frame of mind.
But then I reflected that part at least of his very laudable regret for his dead wife arose only because the black person at home was such a bitch, and I felt quite fresh again.
"We can discuss the matter at my place," said he, outside.
I nodded.
It would suit me very well.
The baker imagined, doubtless, he would be stronger within his own four walls—but I was counting on the black one for support.
She was already at the door awaiting us.
"Hearty congratulations," said I before the baker could open his mouth.
"What for?" she asked quickly, with darting eyes.
"Your Cadillac," I replied imperturbably.
"Sweetheart!" With a bound she was hanging on the baker's neck.
"But we're not there yet." He attempted to free himself and make some explanation.
But she held him tight and tantalizingly spun him round in circles so that he could not get a word in.
Alternating I saw over his shoulder her sly, winking face and over her shoulder his reproachful, vainly protesting weevil's head.
At last he succeeded in freeing himself.
"We are not so far by any means," he panted.