Abright June afternoon was shining down upon the streets of the Provincial Capital. The elderly Baron Jassfeld was once again, after some time, paying a visit to the painter Tillsen and, as his hasty steps would suggest, with some very special matter on his mind. He came upon the painter, as usual, still at table with his young wife in their small, tasteful but simple dining room, its classical decor fitting quite harmoniously with its customary appointments of everyday use and fashion. They chatted lightheartedly on a variety of topics until Tillsen's wife withdrew to attend to various household matters, leaving the two gentlemen alone.

The Baron took his ease, legs crossed, in a soft armchair and, resting his cheek on his right hand, appeared in the ensuing pause to be lost in amiable thought as he tried to rhyme the painter he knew with the new view that since yesterday he had found forcing itself upon Tillsen's works.

“My dear fellow,” he then began, “I simply must tell you just why I've come by. I was recently visiting Count Zarlin, where I saw a painting and had to look at it again and again as if I couldn't get enough of looking at it. When I inquired what master had done it, the Count made me guess, and, guessing, I said ‘Tillsen!’ — involuntarily shaking my head as I said so because at the same time I felt it just couldn't be you. Then again I said ‘Tillsen!’ but then said ‘No!’ for a second time.”