“Look at those asses of people on toboggans,” he said brusquely.  “Could you manage to enjoy yourself in that way?  That might do you good.”

“Yes,” she said; “but it would not be any pleasure to me.”

She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road.  And the Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable.

He had lived nearly seven years at Petershof, and, like many others was obliged to continue staying there if he wished to continue staying in this planet.  It was not probable that he had any wish to prolong his frail existence, but he did his duty to his mother by conserving his life; and this feeble flame of duty and affection was the only lingering bit of warmth in a heart frozen almost by ill health and disappointed ambitions.  The moralists tell us that suffering ennobles, and that a right acceptation of hindrances goes towards forming a beautiful character.  But this result must largely depend on the original character:  certainly, in the case of Robert Allitsen, suffering had not ennobled his mind, nor disappointment sweetened his disposition.  His title of “Disagreeable Man” had been fairly earned, and he hugged it to himself with a triumphant secret satisfaction.

There were some people in Petershof who were inclined to believe certain absurd rumours about his alleged kindness.  It was said that on more than one occasion he had nursed the suffering and the dying in sad Petershof, and, with all the sorrowful tenderness worthy of a loving mother, had helped them to take their leave of life.  But these were only rumours, and there was nothing in Robert Allitsen’s ordinary bearing to justify such talk.  So the foolish people who, for the sake of making themselves peculiar, revived these unlikely fictions, were speedily ridiculed and reduced to silence.  And the Disagreeable Man remained the Disagreeable Man, with a clean record for unamiability.

He lived a life apart from others.  Most of his time was occupied in photography, or in the use and study of the microscope, or in chemistry.  His photographs were considered to be most beautiful.  Not that he showed them specially to any one; but he generally sent a specimen of his work to the Monthly Photograph Portfolio, and hence it was that people learned to know of his skill.  He might be seen any fine day trudging along in company with his photographic apparatus, and a desolate dog, who looked almost as cheerless as his chosen comrade.  Neither the one took any notice of the other; Allitsen was no more genial to the dog than he was to the Kurhaus guests; the dog was no more demonstrative to Robert Allitsen than he was to any one in Petershof.

Still, they were “something” to each other, that unexplainable “something” which has to explain almost every kind of attachment.

He had no friends in Petershof, and apparently had no friends anywhere.  No one wrote to him, except his old mother; the papers which were sent to him came from a stationer’s.