“Bring up the trunks, Gregor,” she commands, paying no attention to my
looks. “In the meantime I’ll be dressing, and then will go down to the
dining-room, and you can eat something for supper.”
As she goes into the adjoining room, I drag the trunks upstairs and
help the waiter build a fire in her bed-room. He tries to question me
in bad French about my employer. With a brief glance I see the blazing
fire, the fragrant white poster-bed, and the rugs which cover the
floor. Tired and hungry I then descend the stairs, and ask for
something to eat. A good-natured waiter, who used to be in the Austrian
army and takes all sorts of pains to entertain me in German, shows me
the dining-room and waits on me. I have just had the first fresh drink
in thirty-six hours and the first bite of warm food on my fork, when
she enters.