girl was; and he reiterated the assertion that she was nothing to him.
What he was concerned for was the good name of his house. Wherever he
had been established, he had always had "artist parties" staying in his
house. One recommended him to the others; but what would happen now,
when it got about that leaders ran the risk in his house--his house--of
losing members of their troupe? And just now, when he had spent seven
hundred and thirty-four guilders in building a concert-hall in his
compound. Was that a thing to do in a respectable hotel? The cheek, the
indecency, the impudence, the atrocity! Vagabond, impostor, swindler,
ruffian, schwein-hund!

He had seized Davidson by a button of his coat, detaining him in
the doorway, and exactly in the line of Mrs. Schomberg's stony gaze.
Davidson stole a glance in that direction and thought of making some
sort of reassuring sign to her, but she looked so bereft of senses, and
almost of life, perched up there, that it seemed not worth while.
He disengaged his button with firm placidity. Thereupon, with a last
stifled curse, Schomberg vanished somewhere within, to try and compose
his spirits in solitude. Davidson stepped out on the veranda. The party
of customers there had become aware of the explosive interlude in the
doorway. Davidson knew one of these men, and nodded to him in passing;
but his acquaintance called out:

"Isn't he in a filthy temper? He's been like that ever since."

The speaker laughed aloud, while all the others sat smiling. Davidson
stopped.

"Yes, rather." His feelings were, he told us, those of bewildered
resignation; but of course that was no more visible to the others than
the emotions of a turtle when it withdraws into its shell.

"It seems unreasonable," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Oh, but they had a scrap!" the other said.

"What do you mean? Was there a fight!--a fight with Heyst?" asked
Davidson, much perturbed, if somewhat incredulous.

"Heyst? No, these two--the bandmaster, the fellow who's taking these
women about and our Schomberg. Signor Zangiacomo ran amuck in the
morning, and went for our worthy friend. I tell you, they were rolling
on the floor together on this very veranda, after chasing each other all
over the house, doors slamming, women screaming, seventeen of them, in
the dining-room; Chinamen up the trees. Hey, John? You climb tree to see
the fight, eh?"

The boy, almond-eyed and impassive, emitted a scornful grunt, finished