“No, thank the Lord!” Mr. Treffry replied.

“But looking at the question broadly, sir,” said Dawney; “if a husband always lets his wife do as she likes, how would the thing work out?  What becomes of the marriage tie?”

“The marriage tie,” growled Mr. Treffry, “is the biggest thing there is!  But, by Jove, Doctor, I’m a Dutchman if hunting women ever helped the marriage tie!”

“I am not thinking of myself,” Herr Paul cried out, “I think of the community.  There are rights.”

“A decent community never yet asked a man to tread on his self-respect.  If I get my fingers skinned over my marriage, which I undertake at my own risk, what’s the community to do with it?  D’you think I’m going to whine to it to put the plaster on?  As to rights, it’d be a deuced sight better for us all if there wasn’t such a fuss about ’em.  Leave that to women!  I don’t give a tinker’s damn for men who talk about their rights in such matters.”

Sarelli rose.  “But your honour,” he said, “there is your honour!”

Mr. Treffry stared at him.

“Honour!  If huntin’ women’s your idea of honour, well—­it isn’t mine.”

“Then you’d forgive her, sir, whatever happened,” Dawney said.

“Forgiveness is another thing.  I leave that to your sanctimonious beggars.  But, hunt a woman!  Hang it, sir, I’m not a cad!” and bringing his hand down with a rattle, he added:  “This is a subject that don’t bear talking of.”

Sarelli fell back in his seat, twirling his moustaches fiercely.  Harz, who had risen, looked at Christian’s empty place.

‘If I were married!’ he thought suddenly.

Herr Paul, with a somewhat vinous glare, still muttered, “But your duty to the family!”

Harz slipped through the window.  The moon was like a wonderful white lantern in the purple sky; there was but a smoulder of stars.  Beneath the softness of the air was the iciness of the snow; it made him want to run and leap.  A sleepy beetle dropped on its back; he turned it over and watched it scurry across the grass.

Someone was playing Schumann’s Kinderscenen.  Harz stood still to listen.  The notes came twining, weaving round his thoughts; the whole night seemed full of girlish voices, of hopes and fancies, soaring away to mountain heights—­invisible, yet present.  Between the stems of the acacia-trees he could see the flicker of white dresses, where Christian and Greta were walking arm in arm.  He went towards them; the blood flushed up in his face, he felt almost surfeited by some sweet emotion.  Then, in sudden horror, he stood still.  He was in love!  With nothing done with everything before him!  He was going to bow down to a face!  The flicker of the dresses was no longer visible.  He would not be fettered, he would stamp it out!  He turned away; but with each step, something seemed to jab at his heart.

Round the corner of the house, in the shadow of the wall, Dominique, the Luganese, in embroidered slippers, was smoking a long cherry-wood pipe, leaning against a tree—­Mephistopheles in evening clothes.  Harz went up to him.