ther
and himself a new personal interview; he gives notice, in
writing, of his trip to America. But as he is slow to write
letters he confines himself to a few words. Since an
incomprehensible lack of logic in directing his life had forced
him to become a laborer, he desired to choose the field and the
manner according to his own individuality. He had turned his
personal property into money; this had brought him a considerable
sum; he had borrowed another sum; he did not ask pardon for
acting thus, since this borrowing was the natural outcome of a
position of which he was not the cause, but on the contrary the
victim. He makes no reproaches, since he is ever of opinion that
all such things as offences and services, crimes and virtues, are
soup prepared from the bones of great-grandfathers, and served in
painted pots to Arcadians. All this was concluded with a
compliment which was smooth, rounded, exquisite as to style,
plan, and execution.

Lack of logic. Those three words had fixed themselves in Darvid's
memory, and after the words "what for?" appeared in it most
frequently. Could they really relate to him? Had he in fact
committed an error in logic? Yes, it seemed so. In that case his
clear, sober, logical reason had deceived him. He rose, and with
his profile toward the door, felt again, rather than saw, a black
wall of darkness beyond. Again a shiver ran along the skin of his
shoulders, which quivered and bent somewhat. He went to the desk,
from which he took another letter, thrown down a moment before,
and unread yet. Something in the room was moving; certain little
steps ran along the carpet quietly. Puffie had woke; had run to
the man, and begun to squirm at his feet.

"Puffie!" said Darvid, and he began to read the letter. It was an
invitation from Prince Zeno to a grand farewell ball. The prince
and his family were going abroad, and wished to take farewell of
their acquaintances in the first rank of them with the "modern
Cid." Prince Zeno had often given this title to Darvid. But
to-day the "modern Cid" read the letter of invitation while his
mouth was awry from disgust. It had not the famous smile
bristling with pin-points, but simply that disfigurement of the
lips which accompanies the swallowing of something which is
nauseating and repugnant. He placed before his mind the society
in which some time before he had passed a few days at the hunting
trip. This society would fill the prince's drawing-rooms on