A year before, his father had died. He had buried him with ostentatious pomp (five priests, fine music, all kinds of societies),—at once ordered for the tomb a marble monument with a gilt inscription, jumped into a coach, and had himself driven back to Prague. . . .
So he walked through the damp night. The gaslight merged upon the wet sidewalk with the pale reflection of the moon. The rows of houses were hid in a grey darkness. The windowpanes glistened with a feeble light. Nearby rattled a coach, dully resounding in the empty street; a citizen, stepping heavily on the sidewalk, muttered something to himself; a woman rughed by in the shadow of the walls.
Jiří strolled on with bent head. He was not meditating. He saw there in the room the slender maiden looking into the lamp light. Her lips said, “There is not time for such a foolish thing as thinking.” Jiří
