His head slightly lowered and his eyes on the ground, his body almost rubbing against the walls of the buildings, he made his way slowly down Praterstrasse, and did not notice the girl coming towards him until she actually accosted him. With a shudder he raised his eyes and looked into the raddled, painted face under the red hat. His old fear of women of her kind clutched at his heart, and he tried to turn away. But the girl, evidently under the impression that he did not find her sufficiently attractive, began to plead with him in a sick, wheedling voice. He would see how satisfied he would be. She knew all the ways of love, and if he wasn’t satisfied she wouldn’t take a penny. The hotel was very close, two steps away. She put her hand on his cheek and caressed him. Gurdweill thought that he would choke on the sickening smell of her cheap powder. He shook off her hand and said that he was sorry but he couldn’t go with her now. He was tired and he had to get up early in the morning, besides which he didn’t have enough money on him. He said all this very simply, and concluded solemnly: at the moment it was out of the question, perhaps some other time. But if she needed money, he had two schillings that he would lend her with pleasure. The girl was insulted and refused. She wasn’t asking for charity, Herr Doktor, she worked for her money! He had better keep his two schillings for himself: she didn’t need them. On the contrary — she could give him another two, and then he would have four. But she was prepared to accept a cigarette if he had one. Gurdweill gave her a cigarette and a light. And then for some reason he offered her his hand, said goodbye, and hurried away with a disagreeable feeling of oppression. He could not overcome his disgust, and was angry with himself because of it. They were poor, miserable creatures, and there was no reason to be disgusted by them, he said to himself. But it did not help. This was the first time he had ever spoken to a woman of the streets. Whenever one of them accosted him he would mumble something unintelligible even to him and hurry past. Or he would make a wide detour when he saw them in the distance. His boyhood fear had never left him and, needless to say, they never gave rise in him to the faintest stirring of desire. As far as he was concerned, they scarcely belonged to the female sex. And although he had made up his mind on a number of occasions in the past to go with one of them — both because his attitude seemed to him unmanly, morbid, and childish; and because he believed it his duty as a writer to explore every corner of life — as soon as he was about to take the plunge he found some excuse to put it off.