They were there—five of them, two little boys and three girls—headed by the anxious-eyed ten-year-old whom she had seen before. They must have entered by the outer door, which Anna had neglected to shut behind her when she returned with the inhaler. She counted them backward and forward as one counts scales—one, two, three, four, five.
They took no notice of her, but hung about, first on one foot then on the other, like strayed chickens, the smaller ones holding by the larger. They had the air of utterly wearied passengers in a railway waiting-room, and their clothes were disgracefully dirty.
'Go away!' cried Frau Ebermann at last, after she had struggled, it seemed to her, for years to shape the words.
'You called?' said Anna at the living-room door.
'No,' said her mistress. 'Did you shut the flat door when you came in?'
'Assuredly,' said Anna. 'Besides, it is made to catch shut of itself.'
'Then go away,' said she, very little above a whisper. If Anna pretended not to see the children, she would speak to Anna later on.
'And now,' she said, turning toward them as soon as the door closed. The smallest of the crowd smiled at her, and shook his head before he buried it in his sister's skirts.
'Why—don't—you—go—away?' she whispered earnestly.
Again they took no notice, but, guided by the
