He did not answer me in words, but, placing his hands on his knees, stared at me steadfastly, and then, having fixed my attention, his face performed a series of the most fearful contortions I ever beheld. With one horrible spasm he made his mouth appear to stretch from ear to ear; with another, his nose wagged from side to side; with a third, his eyebrows went up and down alternately, giving the different sides of his face two directly antagonistic expressions. I was shocked and horrified, and called to him to desist. “And yet,” thought I, “there are natures who can delight in these, and see in them matter for mirth and laughter!” “Old man,” said I, gravely, “has it ever occurred to you that in this horrible commixture of expression, wherein grief wars with Joy and sadness with levity, you are like one who, with a noble instrument before him, should, instead of sweet sounds of harmony, produce wild, unearthly discords, the jangling bursts of fiend-like voices?” “The Tintefleck can play indifferently well, your Excellency,” said he, humbly. “I never had any skill that way myself.” Oh, what a _crassa natura_ was here! What a triple wall of dulness surrounds such dark intelligences! “And where is the Tintefleck? Why is she not here?” asked I, anxious to remove the discussion to a ground of more equality. “She is without, your Excellency. She did not dare to present herself till your Excellency had desired, and is waiting in the corridor.” “Let her come in,” said I, grandly; and I drew my chair to a distant corner of the room so as to give them a wider area to appear in, while I could, at the same time, assume that attitude of splendid ease and graceful protection I have seen a prince accomplish on the stage at the moment the ballet is about to begin. The door opened, and Vaterchen entered, leading Tintefleck by the hand. CHAPTER XXVII. I ATTEMPT TO OVERTHROW SOCIAL PREJUDICES I was quite right,--Tintefleck's _entrée_ was quite dramatic. She tripped into the room with a short step, nor arrested her ran till she came close to me, when, with a deep courtesy, she bent down very low, and then, with a single spring backward, retreated almost to the door again. She was very pretty,--dark enough to be a Moor, but with a rich brilliancy of skin never seen amongst that race, for she was a Calabrian; and as she stood there with her arms crossed before her, and one leg firmly advanced, and with the foot--a very pretty foot--well planted, she was like--all the Italian peasants one has seen in the National Gallery for years back. There was the same look, half shy; the same elevation of sentiment in the brow, and the same coarseness of the mouth; plenty of energy, enough and to spare of daring; but no timidity, no gentleness. “What is she saying?” asked I of the old man, as I overheard a whisper pass between them. “Tell me what she has just said to you.” “It is nothing, your Excellency,--she is a fool.”