Though she burned to have him speak to her, she lacked the courage to grant him additional signs of her favour, having before her eyes Mrs. Jula's appalling example. Besides, the throbbing of her heart was sufficient enjoyment. Already she was so completely under the spell of an erotic world that every excitement of her mood was immediately transmuted into a desirous love game. And the longing, that eternal toothache, of which Mrs. Jula had spoken, had begun to drill her nerves. It had come like a thief in the night. It filled her sleep with flaming pictures and converted her waking hours into a twilight doze. She waited, but nobody came. Nobody took the trouble to pick up her lost soul from out of the dust. There was only one man who observed her and seemed to have a suspicion of what was taking place in her soul. He was Dr. Salmoni. Dr. Salmoni was considered a great man, one of the luminaries in Berlin's intellectual life. He was editor of an art magazine, which had once conducted a revolutionary campaign against the great men of the old school, and had fashioned new gods, erected new altars at which the masses might burn incense. But the steady burning of incense was not in Dr. Salmoni's line. He promptly bethought himself that the divinities before whom every Tom, Dick, or Harry was crawling on his knees, were, at bottom, creations of his and of his friends, fetiches to be rejected, just as they had been exalted. And he began a merry war upon them also. People easily endured Dr. Salmoni's hate; his quips sputtered in the air harmless as skyrockets; nobody believed his imputations. The only time he was dangerous was when he showed pitying benevolence. Then somebody's reputation was surely at stake. In certain circles Dr. Salmoni's praise was equivalent to a death sentence. As in the previous winter, the distinguished Dr. Salmoni condescended every now and then to take part in the innocent sport of the little circle whose forte was not exactly intellectuality. His appearance always caused a flutter of joyous reverence; the company instantly moved closer to make place for him, and as soon as he leaned back gently in his chair, smiled his sad, compassionate smile, and stroked the peak of his light-brown Van Dyke beard, they hung on his lips expectantly awaiting a titillating stream of spiteful sallies. But the jester's rôle did not always suit him. He plunged into profound tête-à-têtes, or dreamed in silence, according to his mood. Sometimes he even showed a naïve, trusting side of his nature, like a leopard playing with dogs. He seldom addressed Lilly; but his piercing eyes often glided over her face, as if to spy upon her feelings and grope about in her soul. One evening he seated himself next to her, and asked her to cut his meat for him--he had strained his wrist throttling a certain celebrity. Waxing more intimate, he next asked her to feed him, though his left hand had by no means been disabled.