“I hope so.  He’s one of the most accomplished men!  He used to be a splendid musician—­pianist—­and knows eight or ten languages.”

“Well, it’s astonishing,” said Fulkerson, “how much lumber those Germans can carry around in their heads all their lives, and never work it up into anything.  It’s a pity they couldn’t do the acquiring, and let out the use of their learning to a few bright Americans.  We could make things hum, if we could arrange ’em that way.”

He talked on, unheeded by March, who went along half-consciously tormented by his lightness in the pensive memories the meeting with Lindau had called up.  Was this all that sweet, unselfish nature could come to?  What a homeless old age at that meagre Italian table d’hote, with that tall glass of beer for a half-hour’s oblivion!  That shabby dress, that pathetic mutilation!  He must have a pension, twelve dollars a month, or eighteen, from a grateful country.  But what else did he eke out with?

“Well, here we are,” said Fulkerson, cheerily.  He ran up the steps before March, and opened the carpenter’s temporary valve in the door frame, and led the way into a darkness smelling sweetly of unpainted wood-work and newly dried plaster; their feat slipped on shavings and grated on sand.  He scratched a match, and found a candle, and then walked about up and down stairs, and lectured on the advantages of the place.  He had fitted up bachelor apartments for himself in the house, and said that he was going to have a flat to let on the top floor.  “I didn’t offer it to you because I supposed you’d be too proud to live over your shop; and it’s too small, anyway; only five rooms.”

“Yes, that’s too small,” said March, shirking the other point.

“Well, then, here’s the room I intend for your office,” said Fulkerson, showing him into a large back parlor one flight up.  “You’ll have it quiet from the street noises here, and you can be at home or not, as you please.  There’ll be a boy on the stairs to find out.  Now, you see, this makes the Grosvenor Green flat practicable, if you want it.”

March felt the forces of fate closing about him and pushing him to a decision.  He feebly fought them off till he could have another look at the flat.  Then, baked and subdued still more by the unexpected presence of Mrs. Grosvenor Green herself, who was occupying it so as to be able to show it effectively, he took it.  He was aware more than ever of its absurdities; he knew that his wife would never cease to hate it; but he had suffered one of those eclipses of the imagination to which men of his temperament are subject, and into which he could see no future for his desires.  He felt a comfort in irretrievably committing himself, and exchanging the burden of indecision for the burden of responsibility.