is mouth grimly straight as he asked,
harshly:

"Well, what is it now?"

"You should gather from your conscience the reason for my highly
uncomfortable journey," returned Nicholas, in the drawl which never
failed to rouse his brother to fury. "It's your miserably selfish
treatment of young Gregoriev and his work that's brought me up here so
inconveniently."

Anton turned on his brother, his eyes blazing with swift rage. But
Nicholas, with a single glance from his calm, mocking, but deeply
penetrating eyes, once more arrested him. "This boy trusts you so,
Anton, believes so utterly in your good faith, the impartial judgment of
you and your worm, Zaremba, that even you, whose very blood is green,
would be moved if you could hear him.--However--where's the manuscript
of the boy's tone-poem?"

"'_Tone-poem!_'--Eureka!--Do you imagine that it actually is music?--as
he believes it, no doubt, to be?--Still, the rot is safe enough--where
you'll not soon lay your hands on--"

The voice of the Jew was silenced--perforce; for the reason that hands
were laid upon him: hands heavy and powerful, full of the righteous
anger of a strong man driven beyond himself. And when the hero of the
recent supper-party finally lay back in his own chair, panting and
wriggling with pain, his mood had changed, perceptibly.

"Have you dared," demanded Nicholas, in a voice low and trembling, "to
burn the first masterpiece of a genius?"

"I told you it was safe."

"Do you imagine I believe--Ah well! I take it back to Moscow with me,
to-morrow."

At these words, the smouldering fire in the other's wretched heart
leaped up again, and he cried, furiously: "You lie! It is _not_ a
masterpiece!--Even Zaremba said that every idea in it had been stolen
from me!--The thing shall never be played until _I_ choose!"

"Anton, are you mad?--Can you actually heed anything said to you by the
jackal who endures your blackmail?--Has your infernal jealousy reached
the point where you don't hesitate at _crime_?--My God!--My bro--"

"Good Heavens, Nicholas! Since when have you gone into melodrama?" The
voice was pettish, but the listener was not slow to catch a tremor of
discomfort under its attempted loftiness. "As if I cared!--or need to
fear such stuff as Gregoriev's!--Go to Zaremba, if you like, and tell
him I sent you for the manuscript.--Much good may it do you!--Oh, yes,
take the thing! Have it played! Hear the fools howl over it and praise
it! The day