But let me not forget Flaten, for something has happened to him. His friends have given him a farewell party and drunk him out of bachelordom, for he is going to marry. It is Miss Torsen who told me this; I met her by accident again under her own lamppost, and she told me then. "And you're not wearing mourning?" I said. "Oh, no," she said, smiling. "No, it's something I've known a long time. Besides, perhaps I'm not very faithful; I don't know." "I think you've hit the truth there." She looked startled. "What do you mean?" "I think you've changed very much since last summer. You were straight and competent then, you saw clearly, you knew what you wanted. What's happened to your tinge of bitterness? Or have you no longer reason to be bitter?" This was all too gravely spoken, but I was like a father and meant well. She began to walk on, her head bent in thought. Then she said something very sensible: "Last summer I had just lost my livelihood. I'm telling you things exactly as they were. I lost my post, which was a very serious matter. This made me reflect for a time; that's true. But then--I don't know--I'm quite adult, but not adult enough. I have two sisters who are really steady; they're married and quite settled, though they're younger than I. I don't know what's wrong with me." "Would you like to go to a concert with me?" I asked. "Now? No, thank you, I'm not dressed for it." A pause. "But it's kind of you to ask me!" she said with sudden pleasure. "It might have been very nice, but--well, you must let me tell you about the dinner party, the banquet; what a lot of pranks they thought of!" She was right about that; these jolly young people had played a great many pranks, some of them childish and stupid, others not too bad. First they had drunk wine of the vintage of 1812. No, first of all, Flaten was sent an invitation, of course, and it consisted of a painting, a very emancipated painting in a frame, the only written words being the date and the place, and the legend: _Ballads, Bachiads, Offenbachiads, Bacchanales_. Then there were speeches for him who was about to leave them, and generally speaking a most deafening shouting over the wineglasses. And there was music, with someone of the company playing all the time. But as the evening wore on, this sort of thing was not enough, and girls with their faces masked were brought in to dance. As there had been a great deal of champagne, however, this part of the program tended to deteriorate into something different, and the girls had to be sent away. Then the gentlemen went down to the hotel lobby and stood at the door watching for "opportunities." There--a young woman approached carrying a baby and a bundle of clothes. Great, wet flakes of snow were drifting down, and she bent forward over the child to shelter it as she walked. "Whoa!" said the gentleman and caught hold of her. "Is that your child!" "Yes, he's mine." "What, a boy?" "Yes."