deep in low-voiced conversation, paid no heed to him. He began to eat and drink eagerly and with appetite.
"You perceive, Struboff," said I persuasively, "that while we have stomachs—and none, my friend, can deny that you have one—the world is not empty of delight. You and I may have our grazes—Varvilliers, have you a graze on the knee by chance?—but consider, I pray you, the case of the man who has no dinner."
"It would be very bad to have no dinner," said Struboff, in full-mouthed meditation.
"Besides that," said I lightly—I grew better tempered every moment—"what are these fine-spun miseries with which we afflict ourselves? To be empty, to be thirsty, to be cold—these are evils. Was ever any man, well-fed, well-drunk, and well-warmed, really miserable? Reflect before you answer, Struboff."
He drained a glass of champagne, and, I suppose, reflected.
"If he had his piano also" he began.
"Great Heavens!" I interrupted with a laugh.
Coralie turned from Wetter and fixed her eyes on her husband. He perceived her glance directly; his appetite appeared to become enfeebled, and he drank his wine with apologetic slowness. She went on looking at him with a merciless amusement; his whole manner became expressive of a wish to be elsewhere. I saw Varvilliers smothering a smile; he sacrificed much to good manners. I myself laughed gently. Suddenly, to my surprise, Wetter caught Coralie by the wrist.
"You see that man?" he asked, smiling and fixing his eyes on her.
"Oh, yes, I see my husband," said she.
