Mohr looked at him with an air of comical dignity, and twisted his crooked under lip still more awry. "She's an artist," said he, "no common-place, pedant of a woman. Here are four friends of art--I generously include you, Franzel, as you at least kept quiet while she was playing, though you were probably thinking of your social discords. I'll wager it will be an honor and pleasure to her--give me a decent hat--or no, I'll go bare-headed, like an inmate of the house. It will be less formal." "You've impudence enough for it. Well then, ask her to bring a glass for the festal banquet." "She shall drink out of mine," replied Mohr, who was already at the door. "I'll run the risk of her guessing my thoughts." They heard him go down stairs and ring the bell. "He's really going to do it," cried Balder, hastily rising from his seat. "What will she think of us?" Franzelius rose too. "I'll go," said he. "I have not sufficient self-control to endure Mohr's jokes and witticisms in the presence of a lady. Will he be here often now? In that case, I prefer to take my leave until--until you too are tired of a man, who never takes anything seriously." "You wrong him," replied Edwin. "Fire and water are two equally stern elements, although one accomplishes by heat what the other does by cold:--destroys and vivifies like every power." "Hm! If you don't freeze meantime--Farewell." "And where are you going to spend the night?" asked Balder. "There are plenty of benches in the Thiergarten." "I wouldn't let you go, Franzel," whispered Balder, as he reached the threshold. "You have already camped here many a night. But--Edwin sleeps so badly now. The least thing disturbs his nerves." "Thank you, Balder. Don't be anxious about me. Good night!" They heard him go down stairs, and directly after Mohr came slowly up. He entered the room with a face deeply flushed, but apparently calm. "Our philanthropist has gone," said he. "I believe I drove him away. I'm sorry; he thinks I don't like him and he's very much mistaken. On the contrary, I do him the honor to envy him." "For what?" "Because he's possessed, not only with his mania about persecution, which makes a man just as happy as if he believes himself an unappreciated genius, but because he has a demon that drives him about, speaks from his lips, hides within him, and keeps him warm--while I, a mere husk without kernel or substance--foh!" "And our artist?" asked Edwin after a pause. "Did she not wish to enjoy either the honor or the pleasure?" "It's late," replied Mohr, looking at his watch, "too late to open a second bottle, I'll seek my virgin couch." "He evades us," laughed Edwin, turning to Balder. "She has disappointed his expectations. Ah! Heinz, I could have told you that before; this muse is not a beauty. Her fingers promise more than her features give."