In five minutes the door opened and Finkel entered—a tall, swarthy, convert Jew, with fat cheeks and goggle-eyes. His cheeks, eyes, belly, fleshy hips—were all so full, repulsive, and coarse! At the Renaissance and the German club he used always to be a little drunk, to spend a lot of money on women, patiently put up with all their tricks—for instance, when Vanda poured the beer on his head, he only smiled and shook his finger at her but now he looked dull and sleepy; he had the pompous, chilly expression of a superior, and he was chewing something.
"What is the matter?" he asked, without looking at Vanda. Vanda glanced at the maid's serious face, at the blown-out figure of Finkel, who obviously did not recognise her, and she blushed.
"What's the matter?" the dentist repeated, irritated.
"To . . . oth ache . . ." whispered Vanda.
"Ah . . . which tooth . . . where?"
Vanda remembered she had a tooth with a hole.
"At the bottom . . . to the right," she said.
"H'm . . . open your mouth."
Finkel frowned, held his breath, and began to work the aching tooth loose.
"Do you feel any pain?" he asked, picking at her tooth with some instrument.
"Yes, I do . . ." Vanda lied. "Shall I remind him?" she thought, "he'll be sure to
