“Where are you going?” he asked Andras, who was putting on his gloves.
The Prince took up the marked paper, folded it slowly, and replied:
“I am going out.”
“Have you read that paper?”
“The marked part of it, yes.”
“You know that that sheet is never read, it has no circulation whatever, it lives from its advertisements. There is no use in taking any notice of it.”
“If there were question only of myself, I should not take any notice of it. But they have mixed up in this scandal the name of the woman to whom I have given my name. I wish to know who did it, and why he did it.”
“Oh! for nothing, for fun! Because this Monsieur—how does he sign himself?—Puck had nothing else to write about.”
“It is certainly absurd,” remarked Zilah, “to imagine that a man can live in the ideal. At every step the reality splashes you with mud.”
As he spoke, he moved toward the door.