Kromitzki appeared uneasy that I did not reply at once to his questions; the eyeglass dropped again, and he said, hurriedly:—­

“There is nothing wrong, is there?  Why don’t you speak?”

“They are all well,” I replied.

It suddenly struck me that my emotion might give the hateful man an advantage over me, and the thought restored all my self-possession at once.  I led him into the dining-room, asked him to sit down, and then said:—­

“How is it going with you?  Have you come to make a long stay?”

“I do not know,” he replied.  “I was longing for Aniela; and I fancy she too must have been anxious to have me back again.  We have only been a few months together, and for a newly married couple that is not much, is it?” and he burst out into one of his wooden laughs.  “Besides,” he added, “I have some business here to look after.  Always business, you see.”

Then he began a long-winded harangue about his affairs; of which I did not hear much, except the often repeated words “combined forces,” observing meanwhile the motion of the eyeglass.  It is a strange thing how in presence of some great calamity small things will thrust themselves into evidence.  I do not know whether this be so with everybody, but in the present instance the reiterated words “combined forces” and the shifting of the eyeglass irritated me beyond endurance.  In the earlier moments of the interview I was almost unconscious, and yet I could count how often that eyeglass dropped and was put up again.  It always used to be thus with me, and it was so now.

After tea I conducted Kromitzki to the room he was to occupy for the night.  He did not cease talking, but went on in the same strain while with the help of the servant he unpacked his portmanteau.  Sometimes he interrupted his flow of words in order to show me some specimens brought from the East.  He undid his travelling straps, unfolded two small Eastern rugs, and said:—­

“I bought these at Batoum.  Pretty things, are they not?  They will do to put before our bed.”

He got tired at last, and after the servant had gone he sat down in the armchair, and still continued to talk about his affairs, while I thought of something else.  When we are not able to defend ourselves from a great misfortune, there is one safety-valve,—­we may be able to grapple with some of its details.  I was now mainly busy with the thought whether Kromitzki would go with us to Gastein or not.  Therefore after some time I remarked:—­

“I did not know you formerly; but I begin to think that you are the kind of man to make your fortune.  You are not in the least flighty, and would never sacrifice important affairs for mere sentimentality.”

He pressed my hand warmly.  “You have no idea,” he said, “how much I wish you to trust me.”

At the moment I did not attach any special meaning to his words.  I was too much occupied with my own thoughts, and especially with the reflection that in regard to Kromitzki I had already been guilty of a lie and a meanness,—­a lie, because I did not believe in his business capacities at all; a meanness, because I flattered the man I should have liked to kill with a glance.  But I was only anxious to induce him not to go to Gastein; therefore I went deeper and deeper into the quagmire.