him on to air his opinions on German philosophy, answered sententiously:  “I do not care for Kant; his was not a republican spirit.”  A man who was said to be famed for his wit perpetrated such atrocious puns that even Pilar was forced to admit after he left that he had had a surprisingly bad day.  An aristocratic member of the Jockey Club, “a truly distinguished being”—­when Pilar wished to give any one the highest praise she always alluded to them as “a being”—­“and not superficial like the most of his class,” talked for two consecutive hours of the coming elections to the Jockey Club, and of the attempt to bring in the wearing of bracelets as a fashion among gentlemen.  The only figure in this gallery which made anything like a favorable impression on Wilhelm was a Catalonian, naturalized in France, a professor at a Paris lycee.  He had simple, winning manners, spoke and looked like an intelligent person, and met Wilhelm with much friendliness.  He was to learn later on that this amiable, frank, unfailingly good-tempered acquaintance had made the most ill-natured, not to say defamatory remarks about him, before Pilar and her whole circle of friends.

One afternoon Anne announced that “the consumptive poet was below, and begged to be allowed to pay his respects to Madame la Comtesse.”  “Another great man, no doubt,” thought Wilhelm, sadly resigned to his fate.  To his surprise Pilar turned furiously red, and said angrily: 

“I am not at home!”

Anne retired, but came back again immediately.

“He sent to ask,” she said, in a tone of studied indifference, which ineffectually concealed her inward satisfaction, “what he had done to deserve madame’s displeasure, and why he should be treated like a stranger?”

“Anne,” cried Pilar, her voice quivering with rage, “how dare you bring me such a message!  If the man does not go instantly, then order Don Pablo and Auguste to see that he does.”

The maid withdrew, and Pilar, without waiting for Wilhelm’s question, muttered resentfully: 

“A man I was kind to out of pity, because he was such a poor wretch, an unknown poet, and bound to die soon—­and now he is impudent and intrusive.  But that is just what one may expect when one is kind-hearted.”

Wilhelm thought no more of this episode, and had almost forgotten that it had ever occurred, when one day soon afterward a friend of Pilar’s, the Countess Cuerbo, came to call.  She was the wife of a fabulously rich Spanish banker, whose house, racing-stables, picture gallery, carriages, and dinners were among the marvels of Paris.  This lady’s most striking characteristic was a vulgar boastfulness, such as is seldom met with even among the worst upstarts of the Bourse.  It was said that she had originally been a washerwoman or a cigarette maker in Seville, but this was perhaps an exaggeration.  So much, however, was certain, that her husband had begun in a very small way, and had received his title at the accession of King Alfonso,