He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. The flat was apparently empty. You tried bravely enough to hide your preference, to look at us all with the same eyes, to speak to us in the same tone. ‘I am far from imagining anything of the kind. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. Wild has done his business.
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