s illuminated by small
bright lights so that they resembled a row of burning martyrs elevated
by some Macedonian tyrant, their cries and contortions as they reached
down into the darkness for material and tools recalling the agonies of
shrivelling victims. The hotel was in blank darkness. The squirming,
writhing exfoliations which constituted the Berlin architect's
conception of loveliness showed not a glint of light. One could not
believe that it had inhabitants, or that they were alive. Nevertheless,
Mr. Dainopoulos halted before the massive double doors and rang the
bell, a tall, high-shouldered shade demanding admission to a familiar
vault. It was some time after he had relapsed into a motionless silence
and an observer might have imagined him to have forgotten his errand,
when one of the leaves of the door opened a few inches, and he raised
his head. At the sound of his voice the door opened a little more so
that he could slide his body sideways through the aperture. Then the
door closed behind him and the hotel resumed its appearance of a
monstrous Renaissance tomb.

Inside, the night-porter, a person in a slovenly undress of dirty shirt,
riding-breeches open like funnels at the knee, and Turkish slippers,
yawned and motioned his visitor to a chair while he slowly ascended the
stairs, which were lit by a single invisible lamp on the landing. Mr.
Dainopoulos remained sunk in thought. It was, in a way, a perfectly
honest and rational proposition he had to make, but he found himself
involved in some doubt as to the way the person above, an Englishman,
would take it. He knew something of the English, being married to one of
that race, and he sometimes reflected upon the unexpected workings of
their minds. They were oppressively practical and drove wonderful
bargains; and then suddenly they would flare into inexplicable passion
over something which he for the life of him could not comprehend. If
this person upstairs did that, what would it be? Mr. Dainopoulos shook
his head. He could not say. He would have to take a chance. He might be
tolerated, or sworn at, or laughed at, or arrested, or thrown down the
stairs. All these things happened to honest merchandisers, he was well
aware. He sometimes watched these English under lowered lids and
marvelled. Personally he preferred German or American men. He felt
nearer to them, less conscious of a certain incomprehensible reticence
of soul which is peculiar to the English, a s