Though he had spoken in a light conversational tone, Frederick was pale and excited.  It was long since the plates had been removed, and Miss Burns, perhaps to avoid a painful answer, asked: 

“Shall we take coffee here, Doctor von Kammacher?”

“Whatever you will, to-day, to-morrow, and forever, provided I do not annoy you.  I am a gloomy companion, I fear.  I fancy there is no other person in the world troubled with such petty egoism as I am.  Think of it, my wife locked up in an asylum is occupied every moment of the day with proving her own selfishness, weakness, unworthiness and wickedness toward me.  Because she is so unworthy, as she says, and because I am so great, so noble, so admirable, they have to watch her all the time, I am told, to keep her from inflicting injury upon herself.  A very pleasant fact to be conscious of, isn’t it, Miss Burns, and haven’t I good reason to feel proud?”

“What you need,” said Miss Burns, “is rest.  I never thought—­I beg your pardon for saying so—­that a man who outwardly makes the impression of such strength can possess such a wee, trembling soul.  What you ought to do now, I should think, is simply cover up your past as much as possible.  All of us have to do some covering up in order to be fit for life.”

“But I am altogether unfit,” said Frederick.  “This minute I am feeling strong, because I am with someone in whose presence, for some reason or other, I can wash myself in clean water—­excuse me, I am speaking euphemistically.”

“You ought to concentrate on something, you ought to work,” said Miss Burns.  “You ought to make yourself physically tired to the point of exhaustion.”

“Oh, my dear Miss Burns,” cried Frederick, “how you overestimate me!  Work!  I am no better than a tramp.  The thing I thought to cure myself with was laziness, idleness.  Here I sit in a land discovered and conquered as a result of the tremendous will power of the Europeans, with my oars gone, my rudder gone and my last bit of free will.  It is this that distinguishes most men of to-day from the men of that time.”

Coffee was served, and for a while Frederick and Miss Burns stirred the sugar without speaking.  Then Miss Burns asked: 

“How did you come to lose your free will, as you say?”

“Theridium triste,” said Frederick and suddenly recalled the simile of the spider that Doctor Wilhelm had used in reference to Ingigerd.  Miss Burns, of course, did not understand him; but Frederick broke off, and though she questioned him, refused to explain.  She promptly withdrew her question, saying she thought it was quite right and good for him if the conversation lost its German philosophic cast and descended to the level of a superficial person like herself.

“I advise you,” she added, “no matter how sharply you may criticise yourself for having travelled so many roads without reaching the end, to strike out into a new road, and do so quite cheerfully.  Confine yourself to something that makes an equal demand on your hands, your eyes and your brain.  In short, return to your old love and try your hand again on sculpture.  Perhaps in a few months you will be the creator of a world-famous Madonna in polychrome wood.”