“You have misunderstood me,” said Christian overwhelmed. “You misunderstand me wholly.” He raised his hands and barred her way. “Do you not understand? If I had words.... But I love you so! I cannot imagine life without you. And yet (how shall I put it into words?) I feel like a man who owes colossal sums and is constantly dunned and tormented, and does not know wherewith to pay nor whom. Do try to understand! I was hasty, foolish. But I thought that you might help me.” It was the cry of a soul in need. But Eva did not or would not heed it. She had built of her love a soaring arch. She thought it had fallen, and no abyss seemed deep enough for its ruins to be hurled. She had neither ears now nor eyes. She had decided her fate even now; and though it frightened her, to recede was contrary to her pride and her very blood. A sovereign gesture silenced Christian. “Enough!” she said. “Of all the ugly things between two people, nothing is uglier than an explanation that involves the emotions. I have no understanding for hypochondria, and epilogues bore me. As for your creditors, see that you seek them out and pay them. It is troublesome to keep house with unpaid bills.” She went from the room. Christian stood very still. Slowly he lowered his head, and hid his face in his hands. XXIV Next day Christian received a telegram from Crammon, in which the latter announced his arrival for the middle of the following week. He gazed meditatively at the slip of paper, and had to reconstruct an image of Crammon from memory, feature by feature. But it escaped him again at once. At Fyodor Szilaghin’s he found about twenty people. There were eight or ten Russians, including Wiguniewski. Then there were the brothers Maelbeek, young Belgian aristocrats, a French naval captain, Tavera, Bradshaw, the Princess Helfersdorff and her mother (a very common looking person), Beatrix Vanleer, and Sinaide Gamaleja. Christian arrived a little later than the others, and Szilaghin was half-sitting, half-lying on a _chaise-longue_. A young wolf crouched on his knees, and on the arm of the _chaise-longue_ sat a green parrot. He smiled and excused himself for not arising, pointing to the animals as though they held him fast. From Wiguniewski’s anecdotes Christian knew of Szilaghin’s fondness for such trickery. At Oxford he had once gone boating alone and at night with an eagle chained to his skiff; at Rome he had once rented a palace, and given a ball to the dregs of the city’s life--beggars, cripples, prostitutes, and pimps. The boastfulness of such things was obvious. But as Christian stood there and saw him with those animals, the impression he received was not only one of frantic high spirits, but also one of despair. A retroactive oppression crept over him.