Ulrich said nothing, but continued to gaze searchingly at Leo's features in solicitous anxiety.
"Sit down and make yourself at home. Won't you have a hot drink. Coffee, tea, grog, negus, eh? Damned cold out of doors. I preferred the storm. Have you had a comfortable journey? It's a long way from Berlin here. Why do you look at me so hard? You'll know me soon."
"I beg your pardon. I will look at something else if you wish it."
"Devil take it! Don't be so touchy, man. One has to be so beastly careful in talking to you. Now, have a cognac to please me. I have got it here--old Hennessy--it would pick up a corpse."
"You know that I never drink spirits or liqueurs."
"Very unwise. In the highest degree unwise, dear Ulrich. One ought to provide for one's bodily needs. It's a duty we all owe ourselves. Excuse me if I attend to mine."
He fetched a flask of cognac from the cupboard of his writing-table, and tossed off hastily three or four glasses, which seemed to have a soothing effect upon him.
"You'll think," he said laughingly, "that I am becoming a secret bibber. But, I ask you, what else is a lonely beggar to do, when his heart----"
"It is your own fault that you are lonely," interrupted Ulrich.
"How my fault?"