The bedroom was small and contained nothing but a bra.s.s bedstead, a walnut looking-gla.s.s 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?"

"No, no, I wouldn't miss going with you. But I must get dressed first, mustn't I?"

"But can't you make haste about it?"

"Very well, I'll hurry."

There came a few sharp, ticking sounds as of scissors and nail-files that were being put down on the ringing marble. Gerrit breathed again.

But, when everything became silent once more, Gerrit, after an interval, cried:

"Paul!"

"Yes?"

"Will you soon be ready now?"

"Yes, yes, but don't be impatient. I'm shaving. You wouldn't have me cut myself?"

"No, of course not. But we must look sharp: you don't know what sort of state Ernst may be in."

Paul did not answer; and Gerrit heard nothing more, except the swish of the rain. He heaved a deep sigh, moved about restlessly, stretching out his long legs. After some minutes, which seemed hours to Gerrit, Paul opened the door, but closed it again at once:

"Gerrit, will you please shut the window!" he cried, angrily.

Gerrit fastened the window; the rain no longer pattered into the room.

Paul now came in: he was in a sleeveless flannel vest and knitted-silk drawers; a pair of striped socks clung tightly to his ankles; his feet were in slippers.

"Good Lord, my dear chap, have you only got as far as that?" asked Gerrit, irritably.

Paul looked at him, a little superciliously:

"No doubt you fling yourself into your uniform in three minutes; but I can't do that. Since one _has_ to dress one's self and can't just shake one's feathers like a bird, I at least want to dress myself with care ... for otherwise I feel disgusting."

"But do remember ... if Ernst...."

"Ernst won't go any madder than he is because I dress myself properly and keep you waiting a quarter of an hour longer. I can't dress any quicker."

"Because you don't choose to!"

"Because 'I don't choose to?" retorted Paul, pale with indignation.

"Because I don't choose to? Because I _can't_. I can't do it. Do you want me to go as I am? In my drawers? Very well; then send for a cab.

I'll go like this, just as I am. But, if you want me to dress myself, you must have a little patience."

"Oh, all right!" Gerrit sighed, wearily. "Oof! Get on with your dressing."

Paul opened a door of his wardrobe. Gerrit saw his shirts lying very neatly arranged, coloured shirts and white shirts. Paul stood hesitating for a moment, looked out of the window at the rain and at last selected from the coloured stack a shirt with black stripes. He put the stack straight and hunted for his studs in his jewel-case.

"How much longer will you be?" asked Gerrit.

"Ten minutes," said Paul, lying angrily, though he was inwardly delighted to make Gerrit lose his temper.

He found a set of niello studs and links that went well with the black-striped shirt and deliberately and neatly put them into the front and cuffs.

Gerrit rose impatiently and walked up and down the room. Through the open part.i.tion-door, he saw the bathroom and was surprised to find everything tidied up, with not a drop of water anywhere.

"Do you do your wash-hand-stand yourself?" asked Gerrit, in amazement.

"Of course," said Paul, who was now getting into his shirt. "Did you think I left that to the servant? Never! She has nothing to do but empty my slop-pail. I do my tub, my basin, my soap-trays, everything myself. I have separate cloths for everything: there they are, hanging on a rail.

The world is dirty enough as it is, however tidy one may be."

"In that case," said Gerrit, astounded, "you haven't been so long after all!"

"It's method," replied Paul, airily, though secretly flattered by Gerrit's remark. "When you have method, nothing takes long."

And, basking in Gerrit's praise, he rang, while pulling on his trousers, and told the maid to bring his breakfast:

"I'll only take a hurried bite," he said, amiably, just bending the points of his stand-up collar at the tips.

Then he picked out a tie, in a large j.a.panese box.

"By Jove, what a number of ties you have!"

"Yes, I have a lot of them," said Paul, proudly. "They're my only luxury."

And in fact, when the maid pushed back the folding-doors, revealing the sitting-room, which Paul, loathing other people's furniture, had furnished himself, in addition to his other two rooms, Gerrit was struck with the plainness of it: comfortable, but exceedingly simple.

"I adore pretty things," said Paul, "just as much as our mad Ernst. But I can't afford them: I haven't the money."

"Why, you have the same income that he has."

"Yes, but he doesn't dress. To dress yourself well is expensive."

Paul's dressing was now finished; and he had turned up the bottoms of his trousers very high, showing nearly the whole of his well-cut b.u.t.ton-boots. He merely drank a cup of tea, ate a piece of dry bread.

"b.u.t.ter's so greasy," he said, "when you've just brushed your teeth."

And he went back to his bathroom to rinse his mouth once more.