Gurdweill bowed his head, numb with shock. Every word that Lotte hurled at him was like a hammer blow on his skull. His heart beat loudly and his breath came in heavy, uneven pants. His pale face sagged hollowly, and he seemed to have aged by twenty years. Everything he had just heard was new to him, but nevertheless was as familiar as if it had been drawn up from the bottom of his own soul. Lotte had dragged it out and laid it ruthlessly before his eyes. He felt as if all his pores had opened up at once and his blood were pouring out and scalding his skin. A suffocating lump rose from his chest into his throat. Perhaps he should have wept then. But he swallowed his tears and did not weep. He sat like a stone. There was a deathly silence. He wanted Lotte to go on, and waited in fearful impatience for her to do so. Her words would have been easier to bear than this silence. But Lotte said nothing. A fly began to buzz, and he was surprised that there were still flies alive now, in the winter. Then he read the name on the book cover again — Arthur Merling — and immediately corrected himself: not Merling but Lerchner, Lerchner! Afterwards he raised his eyes absent-mindedly to look at Lotte opposite him, and saw to his surprise that she was crying quietly in the darkness. Why on earth was she crying now? Of course, she had a cold — she probably felt sick … But what could he do to help her, now that he was feeling so weak himself? Nevertheless, he rose mechanically to his feet and with stumbling, somnambulant steps approached the sofa and bent over her. He stroked her hair as if she were a child. He did not say a word. He could not have spoken then if he had been whipped for his silence. He saw Lotte taking a handkerchief from somewhere and wiping her eyes. Good — she must be feeling better! Gurdweill stood up and returned to his chair. He picked up the book and turned it over and put it down again. Everything, everything had been destroyed. He had nothing left. And Martin? Oh yes, Martin was dead. He had been dead for a long time now. And Lotte had been crying too. She had definitely cried, and now she had stopped. Which meant that she was feeling better — and that was a good thing. He thought he heard someone speak: perhaps they were speaking to him? He looked at Lotte, a long, cold look, as if he were seeing her for the first time, and saw that she had lit another cigarette. What a lot she smoked! Who else smoked a lot? Ah yes, Thea smoked a lot, and it was probably bad for the unborn child … But he could do nothing to stop her; she would only mock him. And then she would go and tell his friends, and Lotte. Yes, she would tell Lotte everything and make her cry … But why was he so tired? He wasn’t ill anymore! Thanks to Lotte, who had taken care of him so devotedly! He really should say something nice to her, but he felt so weak … He would say it another time …