'But can't I go into the house?'
'No. Go away.'
'Well, but can I see your master later on?'
'What for? Of course. You can always see him. . . . To be sure, he's always at his business here. Only go away now. Such a time in the morning, upon my soul!'
'Well, but that negro?' I asked suddenly.
The workman looked in perplexity first at me, then at the servant girl.
'What negro?' he said at last. 'Go away, sir. You can come later. You can talk to the master.'
I went out into the street. The gate slammed at once behind me, sharply and heavily, with no groan this time.
I carefully noted the street and the house, and went away, but not home — I was conscious of a sort of disillusionment. Everything that had happened to me was so strange, so unexpected, and meanwhile what a stupid conclusion to it! I had been persuaded, I had been convinced, that I should see in that house the room I knew, and in the middle of it my father, the baron, in the dressing-gown, and with a pipe. . . . And instead of that, the master of the house was a carpenter, and I could go and see him as much as I liked — and order furniture of him, I dare say.
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