ultan?"

I laughed at this abrupt and somewhat unceremonious question.

"In fact, Coralie," said I, "there are only two really satisfactory
things to be in this life; all else is miserable compromise."

"Tell them to me."

"A Sultan or a monk. And--pardon me--give me the latter."

"Well, I once knew a monk very well, and----" began Coralie in a tone of
meditative reminiscence. But, rather to my vexation, Wetter spoiled the
story by asking what we were talking about with our heads so close
together.

"We were correcting Fate and re-arranging Destiny," I explained.

"Pooh, pooh!" he cried. "You'd not get rid of the tragedy, and only
spoil the comedy. Let it alone, my children."

We let it alone, and began to chatter honest nonsense. This had been
going on for a few minutes, when I became aware suddenly that Struboff
had ceased playing my wedding-song. I looked round; he sat on the
piano-stool, his broad back like a tree-trunk bent to a bow, and his
head settled on his shoulders till a red bulge over his collar was all
that survived of his neck. I rose softly, signing to the others not to
interrupt their conversation, and stole up to him. He did not move; his
hands were clasped on his stomach. I peered round into his face; its
lines were set in a grotesque heavy melancholy. At first I felt very
sorry for him; but as I went on looking at him something of Coralie's
feeling came over me, and I grew angry. That he was doubtless very
miserable ceased to plead for him, nay, it aggravated his offence. What
the deuce right had this fellow to make misery repulsive? And it was
over my wedding song that he had tortured himself into this ludicrous
condition! Yet again it was a pleasant paradox of Nature's to dower this
carcass with the sensibility which might have given a crowning charm to
the beauty of Coralie. In him it could attract no love, to him it could
bring no happiness. Probably it caused him to play the piano better; if
this justifies Nature, she is welcome to the plea. For my part, I felt
that it was monstrously bad taste in him to come and be miserable here
and now in Forstadt. But he overshot his mark.

"Good God, my dear Struboff!" I cried in extreme annoyance, "think how
little it matters, how little any of us care, even, if you like, how
little you ought to care yourself! You've tumbled down on the gravel;
very well! Stop crying, and don't, for Heaven's sake, keep showing me
the graze on your knee. We all, I