The table groaned under its burden of food and wine. Pepper was added to the champagne to heighten every one’s thirst. There were cherries in the fruit bowls, and the gentlemen found it amusing to drop the pits down the semi-exposed bosoms of the ladies. The latter found it easier and easier, as the evening advanced, to resist the law of gravitation, and to display their charming shoes and the smooth silks and rustling laces of their legs in astonishingly horizontal attitudes. The most agile among them, a popular soubrette, climbed on the grand piano, and, accompanied by the grey-haired musician, sang the latest hit of the music halls. The young men joined in the chorus. Crammon applauded with just two fingers. “There is a sting in my soul,” he whispered into the din. He got up and left the room. In the corridor the head-waiter Ferdinand was leaning alone and somewhat wearily against the frame of a mirror. A tender intimacy of two decades bound Crammon to this man, who had never in his life been indiscreet, in spite of the innumerable secrets he had overheard. “Bad times, Ferdinand,” Crammon said. “The world is going to the deuce.” “One must take things as they are, Herr von Crammon,” that dignified individual consoled him, and handed him the bill. Crammon sighed. He gave directions that if his guests inquired after him, they were to be told that he was indisposed and had gone home. “There is a sting in my soul,” he said, when he found himself on the street. He determined to travel again. He yearned for his friend. It seemed to him that he had had no friend but that one who had cast him off. He yearned for Ariel. It seemed to him that he had possessed no woman, because she had not yielded to him who was his very conception of genius and beauty. At the door of his house stood Miss Aglaia. She had heard him coming and had hastened to meet him. It frightened Crammon, for the hour was late. “There is a lady in the drawing-room,” Miss Aglaia whispered. “She arrived at eight, and has been waiting since then. She besought us so movingly to let her stay that we had not the heart to refuse. She is a distinguished lady, and she has a dear face----” “Did she tell you her name?” Crammon asked, and the thunder-clouds gathered on his brow. “No, not exactly----” “People who enter my dwelling are required to give their names,” Crammon roared. “Is this a railway station or a public shelter? Go in and ask her who she is. I shall wait here.” In a few minutes Miss Aglaia returned and said in a compassionate tone: “She’s fallen asleep in an armchair. But you can take a peep at her. I’ve left the door ajar.” On tip-toes Crammon passed through the hall, and peered into the well-lit drawing-room. He recognized the sleeper at once. It was Elise von Einsiedel. She slept with her head leaned back and inclining a little to one side. Her face was pale, with blue circles under her eyes, and her left arm hung down limply.