The next days passed quietly. In the mornings, Hugo had his review sessions, then he went to lunch, then out to the district of Wilmersdorf. In the evening he was at home, at least most of the time. All in all, he was a model of respectability. Only his studies puzzled Mathilde. From everything she saw and gathered from what he mentioned, she inferred that he was preparing for an examination. Every morning when he left, he tucked a book or a notebook under his arm. Nevertheless, it was also clear to her that, when he returned to his room, he was doing nothing related to studying. Two fat tomes did indeed lie on the standing desk he had purchased that stood at the window, but every morning they had a thin layer of dust, proof enough that he had not touched them in the course of the previous evening. What he read were novels and plays, a number of which he brought home every two or three days. They were the little Reclam editions, of which several always lay on the coffee table, the covers bent and with notations or with underlining in pencil. Mathilde could monitor precisely what had pleased him or what he had found questionable, for there were also the occasional passages marked by exclamation points or even three question marks. But of those, there were only a few. Life Is a Dream had the most markings and marginal notes and appeared to have interested him the most.

“Mother,” said Thilde, “If some miracle doesn't occur, he’ll never do it.”

“Won't do what, Thilde?”

“The examination. That could be all right for us. The longer it takes, the longer he stays. And if he takes it and fails, he’ll still stay. Where’s he going to go? He doesn't seem to have many acquaintances. Even the gentleman with the Polish cap hasn't been here again.”

That was quite true. Rybinski had not appeared again since his first visit. But on the evening of the same day Thilde Möhring made this observation, he did come. He found his friend Hugo at home.