CHAPTER II
In the spring of 1868, one evening towards ten o’clock, Frau Permaneder entered the first story of her brother’s house. Senator Buddenbrook sat alone in the living-room, which was done in olive-green rep, with a large round centre-table and a great gas-lamp hanging down over it from the ceiling. He had the Berlin Financial Gazette spread out in front of him on the table, and was reading it, with a cigarette held between the first and second fingers of his left hand, and a gold pince-nez on his nose—he had now for some time been obliged to use glasses for reading. He heard his sister’s footsteps as she passed through the dining-room, took off his glasses, and peered into the darkness until Tony appeared between the portieres and in the circle of light from the lamp.
“Oh, it is you? How are you? Back from Pöppenrade? How are your friends?”
“Evening, Tom. Thanks, Armgard is very well. Are you here alone?”
“Yes; I’m glad you have come. I ate my dinner all alone to-night like the Pope. I don’t count Mamsell Jungmann, because she is always popping up to look after Hanno. Gerda is at the Casino. Christian fetched her, to hear Tamayo play the violin.”
“Bless and save us—as Mother says.—Yes, I’ve noticed lately that Gerda and Christian get on quite well together.”
“Yes, I have too. Since he came back for good, she seems to have taken to him. She sits and listens to him when he tells about his troubles—dear me, I suppose he entertains her. She said to me lately: ‘There is nothing of the
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