cigars and the best hairdresser's essences.

The room they entered was long and rather bare; there was a huge map on
the wall, and below it a pair of globes on crooked supports, resembling
two inflated frogs erect on their hind legs. In one corner was a cottage
piano, close to a writing-table heaped with books and papers; this nook,
sacred to Christian, was foreign to the rest of the room, which was
arranged with supernatural neatness. A table was laid for breakfast, and
the sun-warmed air came in through French windows.

The meal went merrily; Herr Paul von Morawitz was never in such spirits
as at table. Words streamed from him. Conversing with Harz, he talked of
Art as who should say: "One does not claim to be a connoisseur--pas si
bete--still, one has a little knowledge, que diable!" He recommended
him a man in the town who sold cigars that were "not so very bad." He
consumed porridge, ate an omelette; and bending across to Greta gave
her a sounding kiss, muttering: "Kiss me quick!"--an expression he had
picked up in a London music-hall, long ago, and considered chic. He
asked his daughters' plans, and held out porridge to the terrier, who
refused it with a sniff.

"Well," he said suddenly, looking at Miss Naylor, "here is a gentleman
who has not even heard our names!"

The little lady began her introductions in a breathless voice.

"Good!" Herr Paul said, puffing out his lips: "Now we know each other!"
and, brushing up the ends of his moustaches, he carried off Harz into
another room, decorated with pipe-racks, prints of dancing-girls,
spittoons, easy-chairs well-seasoned by cigar smoke, French novels, and