Myles happened to know better--to know that Julius Süsmeyer was even then on his way home, with every intention of devoting himself to the career of a merchant, but, at Herr Süsmeyer’s request, he had not named the fact. He sat, this evening, listening to the talk and jesting of the others for some little time, and then rose. ‘Why are you going?’ cried one of them. ‘Why not stay here? The evening has only just began. It’s only nine o’clock. I expect we shall have some dancing in the _Saal_ when the concert is over.’ ‘Thanks,’ said Myles, with a gleaming smile which lighted up his dark face; ‘dancing is not in my line, as you know.’ ‘No,’ said a young Englishman, laughing. ‘One would almost as soon expect to see old Michel Angelo’s Juliano de Medici step from his pedestal and begin to dance, as you, Heywood.... Now that I look at you,’ he added, thoughtfully, putting his head on one side, ‘there is a likeness actually; at least about the nose and mouth. Look here! If you were to put your hand across your face so----’ ‘And twist my other arm into a commanding position--thus--you would see a man in the attitude of Michel Angelo’s ‘Pensiero’ Medici, and that would be all. Good night!’ ‘Odd fish, Heywood!’ murmured his countryman, shaking his head. ‘I wonder if he was ever less solemn than he is now.’ The object of that speculation took his way out of the gardens and the town, walking northwards, along a road leading to that suburb in which lived most of the more wealthy and distinguished inhabitants of Eisendorf. He walked for half an hour or more, till he arrived at the house of Herr Süsmeyer, the largest and pleasantest of all these residences. He went up the dark garden walk, and pulled the bell; soon the great door was thrown open, and he was in the presence of his chief, a delicate, kindly-looking old man, with a gouty foot laid up on a stool before him, and a crutched stick leaning against the table which stood hard by his easy-chair. The table was covered with books and papers; a reading-lamp cast a softened light over the page which the old man was reading. He was quite alone; there was perfect rest and perfect stillness around him. He glanced up over his spectacles, and laid down his book, as if well satisfied when he found who his visitor was. ‘So late!’ said he. ‘I had hardly expected to see you to-night, after your long day’s work. What business in ----feld?’ Myles entered into details as to the business he had done, with an incidental disquisition upon the state of trade in general at that time. Then the conversation drifted off into other channels. ‘Your holiday-time will soon be here,’ observed Herr Süsmeyer; ‘you mean to spend it in Berlin, I think you said?’