hould have been; and the
stale fumes from the many cigarettes he smoked before getting up
incommoded anyone whose duty it was to take him tea and shaving-water.
When, on that first real summer day, the maid had brought Rosek up to
him, he had been lying a long time on his back, dreamily watching the
smoke from his cigarette and four flies waltzing in the sunlight that
filtered through the green sun-blinds. This hour, before he rose, was
his creative moment, when he could best see the form of music and feel
inspiration for its rendering. Of late, he had been stale and wretched,
all that side of him dull; but this morning he felt again the delicious
stir of fancy, that vibrating, half-dreamy state when emotion seems so
easily to find shape and the mind pierces through to new expression.
Hearing the maid's knock, and her murmured: "Count Rosek to see you,
sir," he thought: 'What the devil does he want?' A larger nature,
drifting without control, in contact with a smaller one, who knows his
own mind exactly, will instinctively be irritable, though he may fail to
grasp what his friend is after.

And pushing the cigarette-box toward Rosek, he turned away his head. It
would be money he had come about, or--that girl! That girl--he wished
she was dead! Soft, clinging creature! A baby! God! What a fool he had
been--ah, what a fool! Such absurdity! Unheard of! First Gyp--then her!
He had tried to shake the girl off. As well try to shake off a burr! How
she clung! He had been patient--oh, yes--patient and kind, but how go
on when one was tired--tired of her--and wanting only Gyp, only his own
wife? That was a funny thing! And now, when, for an hour or two, he had
shaken free of worry, had been feeling happy--yes, happy--this fellow
must come, and stand there with his face of a sphinx! And he said
pettishly:

"Well, Paul! sit down. What troubles have you brought?"

Rosek lit a cigarette but did not sit down. He struck even Fiorsen by
his unsmiling pallor.

"You had better look out for Mr. Wagge, Gustav; he came to me yesterday.
He has no music in his soul."

Fiorsen sat up.

"Satan take Mr. Wagge! What can he do?"

"I am not a lawyer, but I imagine he can be unpleasant--the girl is
young."

Fiorsen glared at him, and said:

"Why did you throw me that cursed girl?"

Rosek answered, a little too steadily:

"I did not, my friend."

"What! You did. What was your game? You never do anything without a
game. You know you d