“Hah, poet who seems to sleep but is always awake--greetings,” he called out, in the crisply dramatic way in which he usually spoke. “‘Demons lurk in your dimples’--you should have written that line about yourself.” “Portraits are merely pretexts--secret portraits of oneself tortuously extracted from the blankness of other people,” said Carl. “You would like to believe that. The involved egoism of youth!” “It might be proving your case to answer you,” said Carl, laughing. Kone was one of the few men who could make him laugh, since he had the odd habit of laughing only in praise and scarcely ever in derision--a custom born in the loneliness of his former years. Kone greeted Martha, who came in later, with words in which an adroitly raised respect and daring sensuality were carefully mixed, but, although her surface was flattered by his obeisance, his attentions failed to penetrate her radiant self-immersion. That would have been a feat worthy of century-old preservation. She listened, like a convinced and mysterious referee, while Kone and Carl indulged in the precise uselessness of argument--a discussion on whether Dostoevsky was an insane mystic, drunk with the details of reality, or an emotional search-light stopping at the edge of the world. The talk led to a question of the exact value of originality. “So, you are looking for originality,” said Kone with a metallic mockery in his voice. “A man may stand on his head without in any way disturbing the universe. Has it not occurred to you that life is only a series of reiterations beneath the transparent gowns of egoism?” “I prefer the gowns when they are a little less transparent. I might also have to know why a man was standing on his head before I could make any conjecture concerning the agitation of the universe”--an amused respect was in Carl’s voice. He liked the stilted lunges of Kone. Helen appeared in the doorway. “Put your daggers aside for a while and come to dinner,” she said, with the most benign of tolerances.