At six o’clock that evening Hans is in such a hurry to hold her in his arms again he only barely remembers to shut the front door. And yet — by some fluke they have the whole night ahead of them — he is determined to be patient. And she keeps her silver glittering jacket on. He brews Turkish coffee, he put the Rotkäppchen on ice a couple of hours ago. Before long, two cups and two glasses are perched on the headboard among the books, when they lie down on the conjugal bed, though he doesn’t call it that, he calls it a lovers’ couch. There is kissing, but for the moment nothing more, they drink Rotkäppchen, they drink coffee, they embrace, she squirms with pleasure at his touch, but he still hasn’t taken off her little silver jacket. The past week has taught him to wait. It almost killed me, he says, waiting for you, but at the same time I think the pain did me good. She pulls his head down to her and kisses him. Yesterday morning I booked us a table in the Schinkelstube — probably to extort your return from the gods.

Command economy, she says, what a good idea, and she kisses him some more.

I was afraid, he says.

So was I, she very seriously replies.