Herr Paul drew out a red silk handkerchief and wiped his beard. "I
assure you, my dear," he said, "it is easier to be flat; it is more
respectable to be flat. Himmel! why not, then, be flat?"

"Like any common fellow?"

"Certes; like any common fellow--like me, par exemple!" Herr Paul waved
his hand. When he exercised unusual tact, he always made use of a French
expression.

Harz flushed. Herr Paul followed up his victory. "Come, come!" he said.
"Pass me my men of repute! que diable! we are not anarchists."

"Are you sure?" said Harz.

Herr Paul twisted his moustache. "I beg your pardon," he said slowly.
But at this moment the door was opened; a rumbling voice remarked:
"Morning, Paul. Who's your visitor?" Harz saw a tall, bulky figure in
the doorway.

"Come in,"' called out Herr Paul. "Let me present to you a new
acquaintance, an artist: Herr Harz--Mr. Nicholas Treffry. Psumm bumm!
All this introducing is dry work." And going to the sideboard he poured
out three glasses of a light, foaming beer.

Mr. Treffry waved it from him: "Not for me," he said: "Wish I could!
They won't let me look at it." And walking over, to the window with
a heavy tread, which trembled like his voice, he sat down. There was
something in his gait like the movements of an elephant's hind legs. He
was very tall (it was said, with the customary exaggeration of family