There was a gentle murmur among the poplars in the garden. A window was thrown open, a man leaned out of it humming. He had no coat on, he looked out upon the world like a dishevelled maniac who had been drinking himself drunk in happiness all night. He suddenly turned away from the window and looked towards his door; somebody had knocked. He called: "Come In!" A man entered. "Good-morning," he greeted the visitor. It was an elderly man, he was pale with fury and carried a lamp in his hand as it was not yet full daylight. "I put it to you once more, Mr. Miller, Mr. Johannes Miller, do you call this reasonable behaviour?" the man stammered with indignation. "No," answered Johannes, "you are right. I've been writing something, it came so easily; look, I've written all that, I've been lucky tonight. But now I have finished. I opened the window and sang a little." "You roared," said the man. "It was the loudest song I have ever heard, I tell you. And it's still the middle of the night." Johannes plunged his hands among the papers on his table and picked up a handful of sheets large and small. "Look here!" he cried. "I tell you, I've never done so well. It was like one long flash of lightning. I once saw a flash run along a telegraph wire; God help you, it looked like a sheet of fire. That's how it has been streaming through me tonight. What am I to do? I don't think you will be angry with me any more when you hear all about it. I sat here writing, you see, I didn't move; I remembered you and kept quiet. Then there came a moment when I didn't remember it any longer, my breast was ready to burst, perhaps I got up then, perhaps I got up once more in the course of the night and walked round the room a few times. I was so happy." "I didn't hear you so much tonight," said the man. "But it is altogether unpardonable of you to open the window at this time of night and yell like that."