The painter started to his feet.

“Yes,” said Sarelli, with a hiccough, “you are a fine fellow!”

“And you are drunk!” cried Harz.

“A little drunk—­not much, not enough to matter!”

Harz broke into laughter.  It was crazy to stay there listening to this mad fellow.  What had brought him in?  He moved towards the door.

“Ah!” said Sarelli, “but it is no good going to bed—­let us talk.  I have a lot to say—­it is pleasant to talk to anarchists at times.”

Full daylight was already coming through the chinks of the shutters.

“You are all anarchists, you painters, you writing fellows.  You live by playing ball with facts.  Images—­nothing solid—­hein?  You’re all for new things too, to tickle your nerves.  No discipline!  True anarchists, every one of you!”

Harz poured out another glass of wine and drank it off.  The man’s feverish excitement was catching.

“Only fools,” he replied, “take things for granted.  As for discipline, what do you aristocrats, or bourgeois know of discipline?  Have you ever been hungry?  Have you ever had your soul down on its back?”

“Soul on its back?  That is good!”

“A man’s no use,” cried Harz, “if he’s always thinking of what others think; he must stand on his own legs.”

“He must not then consider other people?”

“Not from cowardice anyway.”

Sarelli drank.

“What would you do,” he said, striking his chest, “if you had a devil-here?  Would you go to bed?”

A sort of pity seized on Harz.  He wanted to say something that would be consoling but could find no words; and suddenly he felt disgusted.  What link was there between him and this man; between his love and this man’s love?

“Harz!” muttered Sarelli; “Harz means ‘tar,’ hein?  Your family is not an old one?”

Harz glared, and said:  “My father is a peasant.”

Sarelli lifted the kummel bottle and emptied it into his glass, with a steady hand.

“You’re honest—­and we both have devils.  I forgot; I brought you in to see a picture!”

He threw wide the shutters; the windows were already open, and a rush of air came in.

“Ah!” he said, sniffing, “smells of the earth, nicht wahr, Herr Artist?  You should know—­it belongs to your father....  Come, here’s my picture; a Correggio!  What do you think of it?”

“It is a copy.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Then you have given me the lie, Signor,” and drawing out his handkerchief Sarelli flicked it in the painter’s face.

Harz turned white.

“Duelling is a good custom!” said Sarelli.  “I shall have the honour to teach you just this one, unless you are afraid.  Here are pistols—­this room is twenty feet across at least, twenty feet is no bad distance.”

And pulling out a drawer he took two pistols from a case, and put them on the table.