The
coal-heaver runs foul of a gentleman coming out of a gateway; the
gentleman smells of liquor and looks a little shaky; his clothes are
silk-lined. As soon as he has lit a cigar he saunters down the street and
disappears.
The gentleman's face is small and round, like a girl's; he is young and
promising; it is Ojen, leader and model for all youthful poets. He has
been in the mountains to regain his health, and since his return he has
had many glorious nights; his friends have acclaimed him without ceasing.
As he turns toward the fortress he meets a man he seems to know; they both
stop.
"Pardon me, but haven't we met before?" asks Ojen politely.
The stranger answers with a smile:
"Yes, on Torahus. We spent an evening together."
"Of course; your name is Coldevin. I thought I knew you. How are you?"
"Oh, so so--But are you abroad so early?"
"Well, to tell the truth, I haven't been to bed yet."
"Oh, I see!"
"The fact of the matter is that I have hardly been in bed a single night
since my return. I am in the hands of my friends. And that means that I am
in my element once more--It is strange, Mr. Coldevin, how I need the city;
I love it! Look at these houses, these straight, pure lines! I only feel
at home here.
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