ad was
making debts in view of--his father's death. And this absolute
idleness! What good was a man who did nothing? The results also
of idleness were evident in him: a certain premature withering, a
certain dreaming without object--a handsome fellow! He looked as
if born to a princely coronet. As Darvid was ascending the marble
steps of his mansion he said to the Swiss:

"When Pan Maryan comes home say that I request him to come to
me."

Darvid passed an hour or more in his study, alone, over papers,
writing, taking notes, examining various accounts, and letters;
but over his face, from time to time, ran a disagreeable quiver,
and the nervous movements of his hand caused sheets of paper to
rustle unpleasantly. At last the door of the antechamber opened
and Maryan appeared, hat in hand.

"Good-day, my father," began he on entering. "I am glad that you
invited me, for it is long since I have had the pleasure of
talking with you. We both have been greatly occupied. For some
weeks Bianca Biannetti has taken all my time."

He was perfectly unconstrained, though not at all gladsome in his
manner. Darvid, standing at the round table, looked at his son
quickly.

"Are you in love with that singer?" asked he.

Only then did Maryan laugh unaffectedly, almost loudly.

"What a question, my father; love is a sanctuary, built on a
poppy-seed; love then is sacred; while my fancy for that
beautiful Bianca--"

"Is a poppy-seed which you are transporting through the world on
special trains," finished Darvid.

"Have you heard of that, father?"

"I have seen it."

"Ah, you were at the station! Strange that I did not see you."

He made a gesture of contempt with his hand.

"I was disappointed. I planned that surprise for Bianca, and felt
sure of a lively pleasure. When the time came I convinced myself
that the affair was a trifle, not new, and, like everything,
stupid. So it is always: what imagination builds up in a long
time, criticism overturns in a twinkle. It is impossible to
invent anything important. The world is so aged that it has come
to us a worn-out old rag."

He took a seat on one of the armchairs surrounding the table, and
put his hat on the carpet. Darvid replied without changing his
posture:

"Nothing wonderful; when imagination builds up stupidities
criticism overturns the building in a twinkle--"

"Who can be sure that he is building up wisdom?" interrupted
Maryan.

Then, taking a cigarette-case