eyes are good, and his voice is soft and babyish.

"I am unable to understand that all this can interest you so greatly. It
is all one to me." And Ojen shrugs his shoulders; he is tired of politics.
His shoulders slope effeminately.

"Oh well, I won't detain you," says Milde. "By the way, have you written
anything lately?"

"A couple of prose poems," replies Ojen, brightening at once. "I am
waiting to get off to Torahus so I can start in in earnest. You are right
--this town is unbearable!"

"Well--I had the whole country in mind, though--Say, don't forget next
Thursday evening in my studio. By the way, old fellow, have you got a
crown or so you could spare?"

Ojen unbuttons his coat and finds the crown.

"Thanks, old man. Thursday evening, then. Come early so that you can help
me a little with the arrangements--Good Lord, silk lining! And I who asked
you for a miserable crown! I hope I did not offend you."

Ojen smiles and pooh-poohs the joke.

"As if one sees anything nowadays but silk-lined clothes!"

"By Jove! What do they soak you for a coat like that?" And Milde feels the
goods appraisingly.