"Do not grow so tender," said he, "for that injures the interior. You are, however, a son of that generation which possesses an antidote for melancholy."
"What is it?"
"Well, faith, hope, charity, with resignation and—other painted pots. We haven't them, so we go to Tron-tron's, where Lili Kerth sings. We are to give her a supper tonight at Borel's. Borel has promised me everything which the five parts of the world can give."
"As to the problematic nature of that Lili," remarked the baron, "there are moments in which she takes on the superhuman ideal."
"What an idea, dear baron!" burst out Kranitski. "Lili and superhumanity, the ideal! Why, she is a little beast that sings abject things marvellously."
"That is it, that is it!" said the baron, defending his position, "a little beast in the guise of an angel—the singing of chansonettes with such a devil in the body—and at the same time a complexion, a look, a smile, which scatters a kind of mystic, lily perfume. This is precisely that dissonance, that snap, that mystery with which she has conquered Europe. This rouses curiosity; it excites; it is opposed to rules, to harmony—do you understand?"
"Stop, Emil!" cried Maryan, laughing. "You are speaking to the guardian of tombs. He worships harmony yet."
Kranitski seemed humiliated somewhat. He passed his palm over his hair, and began timidly:
"But that is true, my dears; I see myself that I am becoming old-fashioned. Men of my time, and I, called a cat a cat, a rogue a rogue. If a Lili like yours put on the airs of an angel we said: 'Oh, she is a rogue!' And we knew what to think of the matter. But this confounding of profane with sacred, of the rudest carnalism with a mystic tendency—"
The baron and Maryan laughed.