“You live quite comfortably here,” I said, in order to put an end to his embarrassment.  “Untidiness is not permitted to dwell here.  It will retreat through the door, even though at the present moment it hasn’t quite passed the threshold.”

“My abode reaches only to that line,” said the old man, pointing to the chalk-line in the middle of the room.  “Beyond it the two journeymen live.”

“And do these respect your boundary?”

“They don’t, but I do,” said he.  “Only the door is common property.”

“And are you not disturbed by your neighbors?”

“Hardly.  They come home late at night, and even if they startle me a little when I’m in bed, the pleasure of going to sleep again is all the greater.  But in the morning I awaken them, when I put my room in order.  Then they scold a little and go.”  I had been observing him in the mean time.  His clothes were scrupulously clean, his figure was good enough for his years, only his legs were a little too short.  His hands and feet were remarkably delicate.  “You are looking at me,” he said, “and thinking, too.”

“I confess that I have some curiosity concerning your past,” I replied.

“My past?” he repeated.  “I have no past.  Today is like yesterday, and tomorrow like today.  But the day after tomorrow and beyond—­who can know about that?  But God will look after me; He knows best.”

“Your present mode of life is probably monotonous enough,” I continued, “but your past!  How did it happen—­”

“That I became a street-musician?” he asked, filling in the pause that I had voluntarily made.  I now told him how he had attracted my attention the moment I caught sight of him; what an impression he had made upon me by the Latin words he had uttered.  “Latin!” he echoed.  “Latin!  I did learn it once upon a time, or rather, I was to have learned it and might have done so. Loqueris latine?"—­he turned to me; “but I couldn’t continue; it is too long ago.  So that is what you call my past?  How it all came about?  Well then, all sorts of things have happened, nothing special, but all sorts of things.  I should like to hear the story myself again.  I wonder whether I haven’t forgotten it all.  It is still early in the morning,” he continued, putting his hand into his vest-pocket, in which, however, there was no watch.  I drew out mine; it was barely nine o’clock.  “We have time, and I almost feel like talking.”  Meanwhile he had grown visibly more at ease.  His figure became more erect.  Without further ceremony he took my hat out of my hand and laid it upon the bed.  Then he seated himself, crossed one leg over the other, and assumed the attitude of one who is going to tell a story in comfort.