the hidden corner, whence Stephensen's voice sounded, proved that she was—I will not say exactly jubilant—but rather in a condition of electric illumination. One of the gentleman addressed her by a name which I had already heard in gossip connected with Stephensen's. Minna sat leaning back and seemed to be looking down in front of her, but it was evident that she was constantly watching them.
The waiter came up to me to take my order. I was in a dilemma, as I feared that my voice would at once be recognised by Minna. But just then the whole party, with the exception of Minna, began to laugh in the boisterous manner that usually follows a story more vulgar than witty, and under cover of this noise I gave my order without disclosing myself. One of the gentlemen—very likely I should have known the famous name, which I do not doubt was in his possession, had I not been such a newcomer—expressed indignation on behalf of the party at Minna's reserve. "Why do you sit like a stick amongst us, Mrs. Stephensen? Take things more lightly, and don't be a German Philistine.… Remember you are amongst artists.… Empty your glass."—"I am only tired," Minna said.—"Then you must just drink."—"But I don't care for champagne."—"Ah, ha! Too French, too light and spirituous, it is not for you. But Rhenish wine, that you surely like?… Ah, I thought so! Very well! Waiter!" The waiter flew in.—"No more of this foolery, please!" she said, half angry and half amused.—"Really not? I mustn't?"—"No, but I thank you for your kindness.… Only let me sit and look after myself; I am so tired, and have a headache."—"You do not want to go home already, I suppose?" Stephensen's voice sounded, this time very morose. Minna did not answer, but yawned in her hand-
