She
dressed in a rush, but not so hurriedly that she failed to make
the best toilet the circumstances permitted. Her hair went up
unusually well; the dress did not look so badly as she had
feared it would. "As it's a nasty day," she reflected, "it won't
do me so much damage. My hat and my boots will make them give
me the benefit of the doubt and think I'm saving my good clothes."
She passed through the office at five minutes to ten. When she
reached Lange's winter garden, its clock said ten minutes past
ten, but she knew it must be fast. Only one of the four
musicians had arrived--the man who played the drums, cymbals,
triangle and xylophone--a fat, discouraged old man who knew how
easily he could be replaced. Neither Lange nor his wife had
come; her original friend, the Austrian waiter, was wiping off
tables and cleaning match stands. He welcomed her with a smile
of delight that showed how few teeth remained in the front of
his mouth and how deeply yellow they were. But Susan saw only
his eyes--and the kind heart that looked through them.
"Maybe you haven't had breakfast already?" he suggested.
"I'm not hungry, thank you."
"Perhaps some coffee--yes?"
Susan thought the coffee would make her feel better. So he
brought it--Vienna fashion--an open china pot full of strong,
deliciously aromatic black coffee, a jug of milk with whipped
white of egg on top, a basket of small sweet rolls powdered
with sugar and caraway seed.
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