invaded the conversation. At heart he was little moved by this new
friendship, which hail begun with the word itself; he told himself
that it was only a whim of Krafft's, which would be forgotten in the
morning. But, as they stood thus on the bridge, shoulder to shoulder,
he did not understand how he could ever have taken anything this frail
creature did, amiss. At the moment, there was a clinging helplessness
about Krafft, which instinctively roused his manlier feelings. He said
to himself that he had done wrong in lightly condemning his companion;
and, impelled by this sudden burst of protectiveness, he seized the
moment, and spoke earnestly to Krafft of earnest things, of duty, not
only to one's fellows, but to oneself and one's abilities, of the
inspiring gain of unremitted endeavour.

Afterwards, they sauntered home--first to Maurice's lodging, then to
Krafft's, and once again to Maurice's. At this stage, Krafft was
frankness itself; Maurice learnt to his surprise that the slim, boyish
lad at his side was over twenty-seven years of age; that, for several
semesters, Krafft had studied medicine in Vienna, then had thrown up
this "disgusting occupation," to become a clerk in a wealthy uncle's
counting-house. From this, he had drifted into journalism, and
finally, at the instigation of Hans von Bullow, to music; he had been
for two and a half years with Bullow, on travel, and in Hamburg, and
was at present in Leipzig solely to have his "fingers put in order."
His plans for the future were many, and widely divergent. At
one time, a musical career tempted him irresistibly; every one but
Schwarz--this finger-machine, this generator of living
metronomes--believed that he could make a name for himself as a player
of Chopin. At other times, and more often, he contemplated retiring
from the world and entering a monastery. He spoke with a morbid
horror--yet as if the idea of it fascinated him--of the publicity of the