Two women came and stood over him, but little did they suspect that
his dream was of one of them: the one with the lovely eyes and the
soft brown hair. They surveyed him, whispering, the one with a little
perplexed frown on her brow, the other with distinct signs of
annoyance in her face. The girl was not more than twenty, her
companion quite old enough to be her mother: a considerate if not
complimentary estimate, for a girl's mother may be either forty,
fifty or even fifty-five, when you come to think of it.
They were looking for something. That was quite clear. And it was
deplorably clear that whatever it was, R. Schmidt was sitting upon
it. They saw that he was asleep, which made the search if not the
actual recovery quite out of the question. The older woman was on the
point of poking the sleeper with the toe of her shoe, being a matter-
of-fact sort of person, when the girl imperatively shook her head and
frowned upon the lady in a way to prove that even though she was old
enough to be the mother of a girl of twenty she was by no means the
mother of this one.
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