The little German hotel had not been
remunerative. Our host and hostess were too hospitable
and too polite to state the true reason for this state of
affairs. Perhaps rents were too high. Perhaps, thought
I, Frau Knapf had been too liberal with the butter in the
stewed chicken. Perhaps there had been too many golden
Pfannkuchen with real eggs and milk stirred into them,
and with toothsome little islands of ruddy currant jelly
on top. Perhaps there had been too much honest,
nourishing food, and not enough boarding-house victuals.
At any rate, the enterprise would have to be abandoned.
It was then that the bare, bright little dining room,
with its queer prints of chin-chucking lieutenants, and
its queerer faces, and its German cookery became very
dear to me. I had grown to like Frau Knapf, of the
shining cheek bones, and Herr Knapf, of the heavy
geniality. A close bond of friendship had sprung up
between Frau Nirlanger and me. I would miss her friendly
visits, and her pretty ways, and her sparkling
conversation. She and I had held many kimonoed pow-wows,
and sometimes--not often--she had given me wonderful
glimpses of that which she had left--of
Vienna, the opera, the court, the life which had been
hers.
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