But again and again he reverted to his unpleasant position, furious
that he had allowed himself to be led by the nose. He paced his room
until dawn broke in the East. Then he threw himself on his bed and
fell asleep, in bitter grief over the dismal ending of his
wedding-day, which ought to have been the happiest day of his life.

On the following morning he met Helena at the breakfast table. She was
cold and self-possessed as usual. Albert, of course, did not mention
the serenade. Helena made great plans for the future and talked
volumes about the abolition of prostitution. Albert met her half-way
and promised to do all in his power to assist her. Humanity must
become chaste, for only the beasts were unchaste.

Breakfast over, he went to his lecture. The serenade had roused his
suspicions, and as he watched his audience, he fancied that they were
making signs to each other; his colleagues, too, seemed to congratulate
him in a way which offended him.

A big, stout colleague, who radiated vigour and _joie de vivre_, stopped
him in the corridor which led to the library, seized him by the collar
and said with a colossal grin on his broad face,

"Well?"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," was the indignant reply with
which he tore himself away and rushed down stairs.

When he arrived home, his flat was crowded with his wife's friends.
Women's skirts brushed against his legs, and when he sat down in an
armchair, he seemed to sink out of sight into piles and piles of