It was not very cold. From time to time the sun even peeped out of the clouds, like an unexpected stranger. The Sunday streets were dull and quiet. Gurdweill walked quickly; he had no time to waste. The previous night hovered distinctly in front of him, barring his path, this night and many other nights and days before it, and he hugged the walls and pushed his way through. In front of the church on Servitengasse, it occurred to him that he should eat something, even though he was not in the least hungry. He stood still and inspected his surroundings, looking for somewhere to eat. With exaggerated care he subjected building after building to his scrutiny, as if everything now depended on this alone. His old, deeply rooted fear of ostentatious places prevented him from going into the large restaurant diagonally opposite him. In the end he discovered a simple workmen’s café and went inside. There was nothing left to eat. Lunch was over, he was told, but if he cared to wait a while, they could make him an omelette or something of the kind.

‘No, no!’ protested Gurdweill. He wasn’t in the least bit hungry, and there was no need to go to any trouble on his account. He left the little restaurant and went into another café nearby.