“Yes—­yes,” murmured Schrotter as if to himself, “I know this direction of thought better than you think.  It has been brought before me a hundred times by the word and action of Indian fakirs.  It seems to me that false freedom of the soul is a chimera.  Our most unfettered resolves are called forth by unknown, often by outward conditions, by our own peculiar qualities, by the state of our bodily health, by unknown nervous sources of energy through what we see, hear, read, learn.  You make your judgment the sole guide of your actions, but your judgment itself is the result of forces and influences unsuspected by yourself and depending on them.  Well! you want to lead the life of a fakir, to unloose the ties binding you to other men, that is one of several ways to secure peace and happiness, which to me also is an object in life.  The principal thing is not to be superficial, but to consider both what one requires and what one gives up before turning into a fakir.  I respect you in any case.”

The drawing-room door opened noiselessly, and the Indian woman appeared, and with a pleasant inclination of her head spoke a word to Dr. Schrotter.  He got up and said, “Lunch is ready.”  They went into the adjoining dining-room, furnished like any ordinary room.  On the table was a beautiful silver bowl of Indian work filled with flowers, the sole luxury of this bachelor’s table, neither wine nor anything else to drink being visible.  Schrotter drank nothing but water, and he knew that Wilhelm’s taste was similar.  Bhani, as the Indian housekeeper was called, stood close behind her master’s chair, never taking her eyes off him.  The dishes were brought in by the white-bearded servant, and handed with a deep reverence to Bhani.  She placed the dishes before Schrotter, changing them for a fresh course, and poured water into his glass.  It was a silent, attentive service, almost giving the impression of adoration.  Bhani appeared not to be waiting on a mortal master, but taking part in a sacrifice in a temple, so much devotion was expressed in her noble, warmly-colored face.

A dish of curry spread its oriental scent through the room, and Schrotter continued: 

“Tell me, dear Eynhardt, in what way you mean to accomplish your fakir’s contempt of the world?”

“Pardon me,” interrupted Wilhelm, “the expression does not strike me as quite fair.  I don’t despise the world, I consider it merely as a phenomenon, valueless to my way of thinking, and in which I fail to find any real actuality.”

“I understand quite well; we are not debating on a platform, but chatting over our lunch.  I am not troubling either to talk in the correct jargon of school philosophy, and therefore I am at liberty to call your longings after the essence of things, contempt of the world.  Now this occurs in two places—­either among inexperienced young men of strong, noble natures, instinctively conscious of their own vitality, and intoxicated by their own