Lotte noted: ‘A vulgar, common accent. She calls him Rudolfus … That’s all that was missing …’

And aloud she said, ‘No, no, Baroness, why should I be? On the contrary!’ And to Gurdweill: ‘But you look shocking! I’ve never seen you look so bad. Perhaps you’re the sick one.’

‘Me? What an idea! I’m fit as a fiddle.’

‘I can’t see anything wrong with the way he looks,’ said the Baroness.

‘Yes, but the Baroness has only known him for a couple of weeks, unless I am mistaken …’

‘Indeed, but when I first met him he looked even worse …’

This discussion about his looks made Gurdweill feel ill at ease. Behind the words, innocuous enough in themselves, a secret battle was raging, and the battlefield, unfortunately for him, was Gurdweill himself. In a sudden decision to put an end to it, he said, ‘What difference does it make what I look like! The main thing is that I feel strong and healthy. The rest doesn’t matter a fig! After all, I’m not a baby who has to be weighed every week,’ he concluded with a forced smile.

‘Who knows!’ said Lotte provocatively. ‘Maybe you are a baby …’

Dr Astel, who was busy talking to Ulrich and Perczik, caught the word ‘baby’ and asked, ‘What baby? What baby are you talking about, ladies?’

‘Just a baby,’ Gurdweill quickly replied. ‘And the question is: should he be weighed twice a week or is once enough? What do you think?’

‘Hmm, if you have to know right away, I’ll go and make a telephone call immediately … if not we can put it off till later.’

The exchange was not very witty, but it was enough to turn the conversation in a new direction. ‘Right away, right away of course,’ said Lotte, laughing.

The Baroness smiled a faint, triumphant smile. She suddenly knew with absolute certainty that Lotte was mad about Gurdweill, but at the same time it was quite clear to her that she had the upper hand. ‘Not bad at all,’ she thought. ‘“A temperamental little Jewess”, as my cousin Rudy would say. Well, let’s see who’s the stronger!’

She took a packet of cigarettes out of her bag and offered it to Lotte, giving her a look of triumphant self-confidence, which was met with one full of suppressed hostility. ‘She’s probably more beautiful when she’s angry,’ thought Thea. ‘Bright colours must suit her … We’ll tickle her a little when we get the chance, this little girl.’

Lotte fumbled in the packet for a moment, her fingers trembling slightly, before she managed to take out a cigarette. She asked, ‘Do you smoke a lot, Bar-o-ness?’ (She never omitted the title, which she pronounced in an emphatic, faintly ironic drawl.)

‘No! From forty to fifty a day …’

‘In that case you must be an exceedingly nervous woman.’