“A fine thing-hein?  What’s coming?  Will you please tell me?  An anarchist—­a beggar!”

“Paul!” murmured Mrs. Decie.

“Paul!  Paul!  And you!” he pointed to Miss Naylor—­“Two women with eyes!—­hein!”

“There is nothing to be gained by violence,” Mrs. Decie murmured, passing her handkerchief across her lips.  Miss Naylor, whose thin brown cheeks had flushed, advanced towards him.

“I hope you do not—­” she said; “I am sure there was nothing that I could have prevented—­I should be glad if that were understood.”  And, turning with some dignity, the little lady went away, closing the door behind her.

“You hear!” Herr Paul said, violently sarcastic:  “nothing she could have prevented!  Enfin!  Will you please tell me what I am to do?”

“Men of the world”—­whose philosophy is a creature of circumstance and accepted things—­find any deviation from the path of their convictions dangerous, shocking, and an intolerable bore.  Herr Paul had spent his life laughing at convictions; the matter had but to touch him personally, and the tap of laughter was turned off.  That any one to whom he was the lawful guardian should marry other than a well-groomed man, properly endowed with goods, properly selected, was beyond expression horrid.  From his point of view he had great excuse for horror; and he was naturally unable to judge whether he had excuse for horror from other points of view.  His amazement had in it a spice of the pathetic; he was like a child in the presence of a thing that he absolutely could not understand.  The interview had left him with a sense of insecurity which he felt to be particularly unfair.

The door was again opened, and Greta flew in, her cheeks flushed, her hair floating behind her, and tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Papa!” she cried, “you have been cruel to Chris. The door is locked; I can hear her crying—­why have you been cruel?” Without waiting to be answered, she flew out again.

Herr Paul seized his hair with both his hands:  “Good!  Very good!  My own child, please!  What next then?”

Mrs. Decie rose from her chair languidly.  “My head is very bad,” she said, shading her eyes and speaking in low tones:  “It is no use making a fuss—­nothing can come of this—­he has not a penny.  Christian will have nothing till you die, which will not be for a long time yet, if you can but avoid an apoplectic fit!”

At these last words Herr Paul gave a start of real disgust.  “Hum!” he muttered; it was as if the world were bent on being brutal to him.  Mrs. Decie continued: 

“If I know anything of this young man, he will not come here again, after the words you have spoken.  As for Christian—­you had better talk to Nicholas.  I am going to lie down.”

Herr Paul nervously fingered the shirt-collar round his stout, short neck.

“Nicholas!  Certainly—­a good idea.  Quelle diable d’afaire!”