Cloten now laid down his cue also, stepped before the looking-glass and twisted his blonde moustache, while Barnewitz threw himself upon the sofa and yawned.
"It is wretchedly tedious here," he said; "don't know how on earth to kill the whole afternoon!"
"Let us take a walk."
"It is too abominably cold."
"A game at piquet?"
"Too tiresome."
"A bottle of claret?"
"Well, that's better."
"Waiter! a bottle of Pichon and a light."
The waiter brought what was ordered. Cloten threw himself into an arm-chair opposite to Barnewitz, and stretched out his legs.