that
day, and not only did he note in himself an utter absence of
desire to be in that society, but a repulsion for it. Not that he
cherished hatred toward those people, but they were perfectly
indifferent to him. He did not reproach that society; but when he
thought of it he was conscious again of a boundless space and a
vacuum, which divided him from those who formed it. He imagined
to himself Prince Zeno's drawing-rooms filled with faces,
costumes, conversations, card-tables; and, it seemed to him, that
it all existed at an immense distance--on the other side of a
space that was infinite and empty--on one edge of this space was
he; on the other were they; between him and them lay a vacuum; no
bond between them; not even one as slender as a spider-web.

In the midst of the lofty chamber, above the round table, burned
the lamp with a great and calm light; on the desk, in massive
candlesticks, burned candles. In that abundant light Darvid stood
near the desk, with bent shoulders; a number of wrinkles between
his brows; his face inclined low toward the paper which he held
in his hand. At his feet, on the rug, like a tiny statue, sat the
motionless Puffie; with upraised head, and through silken hair,
the dog looked into the face of the man. But Darvid did not see
the little animal, and did not read the flattering phrases on the
paper; he only repeated the words which, on a time, he had heard
from his daughter:

"What do you want of so many people, father? Do you love them? Do
they love you? What comes of this? Pleasure or profit? What is it
all for?"

"I do not love them, little one, and they do not love me. Profit
comes to me from this--significance in society."

"But what is significance to you, father? What do you want of
significance? Does it give you happiness?"

This time there appeared on his lips the smile full of pinpoints,
which was famous in society.

"It has not given it, little one!"

His child had let down on her question his thought to the basis
of life, as if on threads. Now he looked around, and his smile
was bristling with pin-points of irony, increasing in sharpness.
He thought a long time before he said, aloud:

"What comes of this?"

And afterward, in an inquiring tone, he almost cried:

"An error?"

In the light of this thought that his life with its toils, its
conflicts, and its triumphs could be an error, he saw, again,
that Medusa-face, pale with terror.

Puffie, perhaps fright