He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. Of course, he had no idea who I was. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. “I wonder if there is anything wrong with my manners,” she said. She turned there, clasped her hands behind her back and put up her chin. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “Will you help me?” he asked. She had not anticipated such a response from her classmates, but knew to be drawing them with her self-consciousness as if they were bees to pollen.
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