I have been making music for them on my trombone. You know, these pine trees provide most suitable accompaniment for a trombone! They are sighing delicacy against sustained strength, as I remarked once in a lecture on wind instruments in Frankfort. May I be permitted to sit beside you on this bench, gnädige Frau?«

He sat down, tugging at a white paper package in the tail pocket of his coat.

»Cherries,« he said, nodding and smiling. »There is nothing like cherries for producing free saliva after trombone playing, especially after Grieg's ›Ich Liebe Dich.‹ Those sustained blasts on ›liebe‹ make my throat as dry as a railway tunnel. Have some?« He shook the bag at me.

»I prefer watching you eat them.«

»Ah, ha!« He crossed his legs, sticking the cherry bag between his knees, to leave both hands free. »Psychologically I understood your refusal. It is your innate feminine delicacy in preferring etherealised sensations. ... Or perhaps you do not care to eat the worms. All cherries contain worms. Once I made a very interesting experiment with a colleague of mine at the university. We bit into four pounds of the best cherries and did not find one specimen without a worm. But what would you? As I remarked to him afterwards – dear friend, it amounts to this: if one wishes to satisfy the desires of nature one must be strong enough to ignore the facts of nature. ... The conversation is not out of your depth? I have so seldom the time or opportunity to open my heart to a woman that I am apt to forget.«

I looked at him brightly.

»See what a fat one!« cried the Herr Professor. »That is almost a mouthful in itself; it is beautiful enough to hang from a watch-chain.« He chewed it up and spat the stone an incredible distance – over the garden path into the flower bed. He was proud of the feat. I saw it. »The quantity of fruit I have eaten on this bench,« he sighed; »apricots, peaches and cherries. One day that garden bed will become an orchard grove, and I shall allow you to pick as much as you please, without paying me anything.«

I was grateful, without showing undue excitement.

»Which reminds me« – he hit the side of his nose with one finger – »the manager of the pension handed me my weekly bill after dinner this evening. It is almost impossible to credit. I do not expect you to believe me – he has charged me extra for a miserable little glass of milk I drink in bed at night to prevent insomnia. Naturally, I did not pay. But the tragedy of the story is this: I cannot expect the milk to produce somnolence any longer; my peaceful attitude of mind towards it is completely destroyed. I know I shall throw myself into a fever in attempting to plumb this want of generosity in so wealthy a man as the manager of a pension. Think of me to-night« – he ground the empty bag under his heel – »think that the worst is happening to me as your head drops asleep on your pillow.«

Two ladies came on the front steps of the pension and stood, arm in arm, looking over the garden. The one, old and scraggy, dressed almost entirely in black bead trimming and a satin reticule; the other, young and thin, in a white gown, her yellow hair tastefully garnished with mauve sweet-peas.

The Professor drew in his feet and sat up sharply, pulling down his waistcoat.

»The Godowskas,« he murmured. »Do you know them? A mother and daughter from Vienna. The mother has an internal complaint and the daughter is an actress. Fräulein Sonia is a very modern soul.