," said Marion.

With a sigh Moritz raised himself, took his towel, which was lying on
the ground beside him, hung it over his shoulder, and struck
reluctantly into the path toward the meadow.

All over the cropped meadow cobwebs were glittering on the short grass.
Swallows flitted quite low over the ground. The sun beat down
pitilessly.

"Incredible," murmured Moritz, "to have to look for this Polish
narcissus in such a heat. Where's he likely to be? Probably lying here
somewhere."

He did actually find Boris lying flat on his back in the grass under a
willow. When Moritz came to a stop before him, Boris looked at him
indifferently and said, "What do you want?"

"I," said Moritz, "I don't really want anything, but Billy sent me to
keep watch over you."

Boris did not answer, but looked up at the sky again. So Moritz also
lay down in the grass. This handsome Pole in his yellow silk suit was
unspeakably distasteful to him. How he lay there, as it were heavy and
satiated with the admiration of all the beautiful women that were
devoted to him. Moritz could have hit him. Yet he felt a craving to be
near him, for there was something of Billy where Boris was: Boris knew
about her, he was the stupid, hateful, locked door, behind which stood
the only thing that Moritz now desired. To sit before that door was
painful, but for now this pain was simply the only occupation left to
him.

"Thoughtful?" remarked Moritz at last.

"Yes," said Boris with his lyrical inflection, "he who is not yet done
with his life has much to think over."

Moritz laughed scornfully: "H'mp, you've managed to crowd a good lot
into yours already."

"Oh, I've hardly begun yet," said Boris sleepily.

Moritz now reflected as to what he could say, then he began, "Tell me,
how was that affair in Warsaw with the dancer Zucchetti? Didn't you
have a _liaison_ with her?"

But Boris was not vexed. "How was it? Why, how should I know that
now. You don't remember things like that. You might just as well ask me
about the bottle of champagne I drank on the twelfth of August three
years ago. I don't know." And comfortably, as if he were lying in bed,
he turned over on his stomach in the grass, to let the sun warm his
back.

"All right," Moritz continued obstinately. "But you did enough crazy
things on her account, so you must have loved her."

"If you call that love in German," responded Boris, "then I am sorry
for your poor German language."

"Is t