the patter of the summer rain. And Gerrit looked around him. He had hardly ever been here, at Paul's; and he was now struck by the exquisite tidiness of the rooms. Paul had a bedroom, a sitting-room and a dressing-room in which he had installed his tub.
"What a tidy beggar he is!" thought Gerrit and looked around him.
The bedroom was small and contained nothing but a brass bedstead, a walnut looking-glass wardrobe, a walnut table and two chairs. There was not a single object lying about. The pillows on the bed showed just the faintest impress of Paul's head; the bed-clothes he had thrown well back, when he got up, very neatly, as though to avoid creasing them.
Gerrit heard the ripple of water in the dressing-room. It was as if Paul were squeezing out the sponge with exquisite precaution, so as not to splash a single drop outside his tub. The bath lasted a long time. Then all was silence.
"Can't you hurry a bit?" cried Gerrit, impatiently.
"All right," Paul called back, in placid tones.
"What are you up to? I don't hear you moving."
"I'm doing my feet."
"My dear fellow, can't you get on a bit faster? Or shall I go on?"
