ent she yawned in her old, pretty, lazy
way. Certainly there were no signs of romantic misery or tragic
disillusionment about her. Again I asked myself whether my sympathy were
not more justly due to Struboff--Struboff, who sat now smoking a big
cigar and wobbling his head solemnly in answer to the emphatic taps of
Wetter's forefinger on his waistcoat. The question was whether human
tenderness lay anywhere under those wrappings; if so, M. Struboff might
be a proper object of compassion, his might be the misery, his (O
monstrous thought!) the disillusionment. But the prejudice of beauty
fought hard on Coralie's side. I always find it difficult to be just to
a person of markedly unpleasant appearance. I was piqued to much
curiosity by these wandering ideas; I determined to probe Struboff
through the layers.

Soon after I took my leave. Coralie pressed me to return the next day,
and before I could speak Wetter accepted the invitation for me. There
was no very strong repugnance in Struboff's face; I should not have
heeded it had it appeared. Wetter prepared to come with me. I watched
his farewell to Coralie; his smile seemed to mock both her and himself.
She was weary and dreary, but probably only because she wanted her bed.
It was a mistake, as a rule, to attribute to her other than the simplest
desires. The moment we were outside, Wetter turned on me with a savagely
mirthful expression of my own thoughts.

"A wretched thing to leave her with him? Not the least in the world!" he
cried. "She will sleep ten hours, eat one, sing three, sleep three, eat
two, sleep---- Have I run through the twenty-four?"

"Well, then, why are we to disturb ourselves?" I asked.

"Why are we to disturb ourselves? Good God, isn't it enough that she
should be like that?"

I laughed, as I blew out my cigarette smoke.

"This is an old story," said I. "She is not in love with you, I suppose?
That's it, isn't it?"

"It's not the absence of the fact," said he, with a smile; "it's the
want of the potentiality that is so deplorable."

"Why torment Struboff, though?"

"Struboff?" he repeated, knitting his brows. "Ah, now Struboff is worth
tormenting! You won't believe me; but he can feel."

"I was right, then; I thought he could."

"You saw it?"

"My prospects, perhaps, quicken my wits."

My arm was through his, and he pressed it between his elbow and his
side.

"You see," said he, "perversity runs through it all. She should feel; he
sh