"My dear sir," say I, "enough of those commonplaces. That hetaira is worth ten such false Catos as you. You are nothing to me yet; and know this, that you annoy me! I have enough of you with your pathos, with your--" Here words fail me; but I have no further need of them, for Suslovski is opening his waistcoat, as if wishing to say,-- "Strike! spare not, here is my breast!" But I have no thought of striking; I declare simply that I am going, lest I might say something more to Pan Suslovski. In fact, I leave without saying farewell to any one. The fresh breeze cools my heated head. Nine o'clock in the evening, and the night is very calm. I must walk to regain my composure, therefore I fly to the Alley of the Belvedere. The windows in Hela's villa are dark. Evidently she is not at home. I know not myself why that causes me immense disappointment. If I could see even her shadow on the window-pane, I should grow calm; but as it is, anger bears me away again. What I shall do with that Ostrynski at the first meeting--I know not. Fortunately, he is not a man who withdraws before responsibility. But speaking precisely, what claim have I against him? The article is written with infernal dexterity. Ostrynski denies that the minstrel is a disguised painter; he stands up, as it were, for Eva; but at the same time betrays the whole secret to Hela. Evidently he is trying to compromise Eva in the opinion of Hela; he takes vengeance on me for Kazia, and covers me besides with ridicule. If only he hadn't said that my intelligence is blunted! The deed is done. In Hela's eyes I am covered with ridicule. She reads "The Kite." Oh, what a dish of hash, and what bitterness for Eva! How that Ostrynski must triumph! Surely I must do something; but if I know what, may I become a reporter for "The Kite"! It occurs to me to take counsel with Eva. She plays to-day; I will fly to the theatre and see her after the play. There is time yet. Half an hour later I am in her dressing-room. Eva will finish directly; meanwhile, I look around. Our theatres are not distinguished, as is known, for luxury of furnishing. A chamber with white walls; two jets of gas quivering from the draught; a mirror; a washstand; a number of chairs; and in one corner, a long chair, probably the private property of the diva,--this is her dressing-room. Before the mirror a multitude of toilet articles, a cup of black coffee partly drunk, boxes with rouge and white, lead for the brows, a number of pairs of gloves, still retaining the form of the hand, and among them two false tresses; at the side walls bunches of costumes, white, rose-colored, dark, light, and heavy; on the floor are two baskets full of things pertaining to female costumes. The room is full of odor of toilet powder. What a medley everywhere; how everything has been cast about in a hurry! How many colors and reflections; what shadows; what a play of light from the quivering gas-jets!