is an
innocent. In spite of his forty and some years clearly sounded,
and his romantic experiences, his love for good eating and other
nice things, the highest point of extravagance of all sorts for
him were Boccaccio, Paul de Kock, Alfred Musset--simpletons, or
babies.

Kranitski, after his first impression, had a feeling of shame.

"Pardon, my dears! An innocent! Not so much of an innocent as may
seem to you. I am far from being an innocent; I understand
everything and am able to experience everything. But, do you see,
there is a difference in tastes. Clearness, simplicity, harmony,
these are what I like, but yours--yours--"

Again he was carried away by aesthetic indignation, so, throwing
himself back in the chair, with outspread arms, he finished:

"Your making poetry of spittle and foul odor is--do you know
what? it is sprinkling a cloaca with holy water! That is what it
is."

In the little drawing-room between the screens of stained glass
and that part of the wall on which a knight of the Pound Table
was bowing to Isolde stood a small organ, and before the organ,
at the midday hour, sat Baron Emil playing one of the grandest
fugues of Sebastian Bach. Small and fragile, in his morning dress
of yellowish flannel, in stockings with colored stripes, and
shoes of yellow leather with very sharp tips, he was resting his
shoulder against the arm of the chair carved in a trefoil
(fourteenth century); he stretched his arms stiffly and rested
his long bony fingers on various keys of the piano. His delicate,
sallow features had an expression of great solemnity; his small,
blue eyes looked dreamily into space, and from the glass shade,
brightened by the sunlight falling in through the window, purple
and blue rays fell on his faded forehead and ruddy, closely cut
hair.

Besides the baron, who was playing, was present Kranitski, who
had come an hour before and heard from the servant that the baron
was sleeping yet. But that was not true, for a few minutes after
Kranitski heard farther back in the building an outburst of
female laughter, to which the nasal voice of the baron, who spoke
rather long about something, gave answer. The guest smiled and
whispered to the "Triumph of Death," at which he was looking,
"Lili Kerth."

Then he sank into the cathedra so that in spite of his lofty
stature he almost disappeared in it. Soon the baron appeared at
the door, and, accustomed to seeing Kranitski at various times,
he nodde