drink? Come here, sonny, you can get something from
me. _Dalej_, _dalej_, why aren't you coming?"

All eyes were fixed on the schoolmaster, who said "Thanks" in a curt
voice and without looking at the farmer, but did not move.

Then all the others raised their glasses as well. "Your good health,
Mr. Boehnke."

Had none of them noticed how rude that was of Mr. Tiralla? Boehnke's
blood boiled. He, the schoolmaster, whose mission it was to train the
young--he, the only one there who could lay claim to any education,
he was to stand that? "_Dalej_, _dalej!_" the peasant had shouted at
him, as if he were his stableboy or his farm horse. Was he to put up
with that? Was he really obliged to put up with it? No, no, no! The
slim-looking schoolmaster was on the point of jumping up from his seat,
but he got no further. He had again caught a glance from Mrs. Tiralla,
and he had understood what those black eyes were saying to him. His
fury subsided as he remained quietly in his place, but deep down in his
heart there was born a hatred for Mr. Tiralla.

The dancing recommenced after supper, but the [Pg 100] feet did not
trip as lightly as before, and they did not always agree; for when the
man's foot went to the left, his partner's wanted to go to the right.
The dancers also fell down more frequently. The boards shook, and the
clouds of dust became thicker and thicker. The ballroom was gloomy and
oppressive.

Mrs. Tiralla's dress no longer flew about as it had done during the
first part of the evening. She was standing in the cloak-room with
Mariechen Rozycki, who was sobbing bitterly, whilst old Piasecka, the
attendant, whose business it was also to carry "In Memoriam" cards
round, was busily rubbing her. "Oh, my pink blouse!" wailed the girl,
"my beautiful blouse!"

The forester's pupil, the idiot, had poured a whole glass of beer down
the front of it, when she was tenderly leaning against him just before
they left the table. She was beside herself with grief.

"You can send it to Spindler in Berlin," said Mrs. Tiralla consolingly.
"There is also a very good dry cleaner in Posen. Why, child!" she
exclaimed, putting her finger under the girl's chin and raising her
face, that was quite swollen with crying, "surely you aren't crying for
the sake of a blouse?"

All at once it seemed so infinitely futile to cry on account of a
spoilt blouse. Mrs. Tiralla had quite forgotten that she also had shed
tears on account of her hair j