Hugo Großmann returned at seven and met Thilde in the vestibule.

“Did anyone call, Fräulein?”

“Yes, a gentleman. He came around five. I told him that you planned to return at eight. He said that he would come back then.”

“Good. And did he give his name?”

“Yes. Von Rybinski, I believe.”

“Ah, Rybinski. That's good.”

The clock had barely struck eight when the doorbell rang. Rybinski had returned and was led in.

“Good day, Großmann.”

“Hello, Rybinski. Sorry you missed me, do have a seat. I’m always out and about in the afternoon.”

“I know,” said Rybinski as he pushed a chair up to the sofa. “You’re quite the Käpernick! When will this eternal running about be over? It doesn't suit you. You definitely have more of the plump dormouse than the rural mail carrier about you. So why are you always going back and forth between Grunewald and Wilmersdorf? Or do you have some other route these days?”

“That remains to be seen, my friend,” replied Hugo. “I’ve only been here twenty-four hours—just arrived early yesterday, over there at the Friedrichstraße station. Thank God I’m back, but then again … Owinsk is certainly hopelessly provincial, and when you get up in the morning, you might as well just go right back to bed. And then there's my mother and sister's endless complaining. Not an ounce of understanding for books or paintings. But if a dancing bear comes to town, it's like a guest appearance by Charlotte Wolter! No, none of that's exactly to my taste. Yet there's one good thing about that kind of sleepy town: you have some leisure, you can spend time with your thoughts if you have any, and you can stop the endless cramming. Oh, Rybinski, now it's starting up again! How are things going with you? When I look at you with your Polish cap on! Don't take this amiss, but you look a bit theatrical—and those high boots! You don't exactly look as if you’re coming directly from a review session.