It often surprised and vexed him to find that
some contemporary held higher rank than himself.
Threading the streets in his cab, he mused:
"Did I do anything that really shocked her last night? Why didn't I
wait for her this morning and find out the worst?" And his lips twisted
awry--for to find out the worst was not his forte. Meditation, seeking
as usual a scapegoat, lighted on Rosek. Like most egoists addicted to
women, he had not many friends. Rosek was the most constant. But even
for him, Fiorsen had at once the contempt and fear that a man naturally
uncontrolled and yet of greater scope has for one of less talent but
stronger will-power. He had for him, too, the feeling of a wayward
child for its nurse, mixed with the need that an artist, especially an
executant artist, feels for a connoisseur and patron with well-lined
pockets.
'Curse Paul!' he thought. 'He must know--he does know--that brandy of
his goes down like water. Trust him, he saw I was getting silly! He had
some game on. Where did I go after? How did I get home?' And again: 'Did
I hurt Gyp?' If the servants had seen--that would be the worst; that
would upset her fearfully! And he laughed. Then he had a fresh access of
fear. He didn't know her, never knew what she was thinking or feeling,
never knew anything about her. And he thought angrily: 'That's not fair!
I don't hide myself from her.
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