o the
light read it attentively. Klutz leaned forward and watched his face.
Not a muscle moved. It had been calm before, and it remained calm. Klutz
could hardly keep himself from leaping up and striking that impassive
face, striking some sort of feeling into it. He had played his big card,
and Axel was quite unmoved. What could he do, what could he say, to hurt
him?

"Shall we burn it?" inquired Axel, looking up from the paper.

"Burn it? Burn my poem?"

"It is such very great nonsense. It is written by a child. We know what
child. Only one in this part can write English."

"Miss Estcourt wrote it, I tell you!" cried Klutz, jumping to his feet
and snatching the paper away.

"Your telling me so does not in the very least convince me. Miss
Estcourt knows nothing about it."

"She does--she did----" screamed Klutz, beside himself. "Your Miss
Estcourt--your _Braut_--you try to brazen it out because you are ashamed
of such a _Braut_. It is no use--everyone shall see this, and be told
about it--the whole province shall ring with it--_I_ will not be the
laughing-stock, but _you_ will be. Not a labourer, not a peasant, but
shall hear of it----"

"It strikes me," said Axel, rising, "that you badly want kicking. I do
not like to do it in my house--it hardly seems hospitable. If you will
suggest a convenient place, neutral ground, I shall be pleased to come
and do it."

He looked at Klutz with an encouraging smile. Then something in the
young man's twitching face arrested his attention. "Do you know what I
think?" he said quickly, in a different voice. "It is less a kicking
that you want than a good meal. You really look as though you had had
nothing to eat for a week. The difference a beefsteak would make to your
views would surprise you. Come, come," he said, patting him on the
shoulder, "I have been taking you too seriously. You are evidently not
in your usual state. When did you have food last? What has Frau Pastor
been about? And your eyelids are so red that I do believe----" Axel
looked closer--"I do believe you have been crying."

"Sir," began Klutz, struggling hard with a dreadful inclination to cry
again, for self-pity is a very tender and tearful sentiment, "Sir----"

"Let me order that beefsteak," said Axel kindly. "My cook will have it
ready in ten minutes."

"Sir," said Klutz, with the tremendous dignity that immediately precedes
tears, "Sir, I am not to be bribed."

"Well, take a cigar at least," said