soul it is to that soul a great and
terrible torment--I have looked at such a torment, and while
looking at it I have been brought to name the so-called love, and
the so-called happiness, painted pots. Idyls! There may be idyls
somewhere, but that which I saw--I assure you, father, did not
encourage--did not encourage me to look at things from the
idyllic angle."

Darvid rose with an impulsive movement.

"To the question, Irene, to the question! Say what the request is
for which you have come. And from what does your mother suffer so
greatly? It would be better were you to tell your wish at once,
and without these introductions. Do reproaches of conscience
trouble your mother? I have no time for psychological analysis,
and should like to finish this conversation more quickly. Well,
was it that besides conscience and other things like it--she did
not find in her lover the man whom her sentiment imagined? I am
ashamed to speak with you of this. Tell quickly what your wish
is."

With a trembling hand he approached the end of his cigarette to
the candle burning on the desk; his face now grown smaller, was
contracted from the wrinkles which covered his forehead, and the
countless quivers which passed across his face. Irene, very pale
now, followed her father with her eyes; her lips were almost
blue.

"Yes, father," answered she, "in mamma's soul that which we call
conscience is greatly developed. Moreover, a feeling of shame in
presence of us, and humiliation that everything which she has
comes from you."

At this moment something rustled again, somewhere in a corner,
but no one turned attention to it.

Darvid, who passed through the room a number of times, hastily,
stopped again:

"Speak more quickly," said he, "I cannot understand what it is
that your mother wishes. I left her in the position of a
respected wife, of a mother, and mistress of a house. She is
surrounded with luxury, she shines in society, and enjoys life."

Irene opened her arms with a movement indicating pity:

"This which you consider as the highest favor for mamma is just
what she does not wish. She does not wish to enjoy the respect of
society, which she does not deserve, as she thinks; nor to make
use of the luxury which comes from you, and which is bound up
with speechless contempt. Mamma desires to leave this house; in
general, to abandon society-life, with all its luxury and
brilliancy. I have known for a considerable time of this, an