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He nearly ran his legs off working for the company. Alfons Diruf loved this socialist bookkeeper, after a fashion. Inspector Jordan saw however that the countless brokers were encroaching on his territory and stirring up distrust on the part of his better clients. He lost his interest.
Jordan took him by the hand; it was his way of displaying gratitude. And he was grateful, though it was hard for him to subdue a feeling of solicitude. He recognised the boy’s external amiability, but felt convinced that this merely covered and concealed a decayed soul. Alfons Diruf was obese and gloomy.
Disturbing the same people in their domestic peace, prodding himself on to new effort every morning, listening to the same curtain lectures of that monster of monsters, the insatiate stock market, and standing up under the commands of his chief, Alfons Diruf—no, he was no longer equal to it. It was all contrary to the dignity of a man of his years.
If I want to I can make him turn a somersault, believe me.” He shoved his fat hand a little farther along, as if it were some dangerous engine and his solitaire a signal lamp. “I can make the whole pack of you dance whenever I want to. Can’t I, sweetheart? Capito? Comprenez-vous?” Eleanore looked into Alfons Diruf’s smeary eyes with unspeakable amazement.
He then put on his slippers. Each of them bore a motto embroidered in red. On the left one were the words “For tired father”; on the right one, “Consolation.” Eleanore had not told her father why she had left her position with Alfons Diruf. Nor did Jordan ask her why when he learned that she did not wish to speak about it.
He paid a great deal of attention to his clothes, and was proud of his handsome face. After repeated conversations with the seventeen-year-old boy, Jordan decided to get him a job as a clerk in the offices of the Prudentia. He discussed the situation with the general agent, and Alfons Diruf gave his consent. Benno began his work at fifty marks a month.
"Miss Dene, you shall kill the first chamois that I see!" "I fear, Mr Gethryn, the Duke Alfons Adalbert Maximilian in Baiern will have something to say about that!" "Oh h h! Preserved?" "Yes, indeed, preserved!" "But they told me I might shoot on the Sonnewendjoch." "Ah! But that's in Tyrol, just across the line. You can see it from here. Austrian game laws aren't Bavarian game laws, sir!"
It was a rare smile, something quite beyond the bounds of what is ordinarily called a smile. Alfons Diruf was no longer fat and fierce; he was like a pricked bubble; he was done for. And finding himself alone, he stood there for a while and gaped at the floor. He looked and felt hopelessly stupid. Eleanore hastened through the streets, and suddenly discovered that she was in the Long Row.
Catherine, No. 635 in the National Gallery, the style of which, notwithstanding the rather Giorgionesque type of the girlish Virgin, shows further advance in a more sweeping breadth and a larger generalisation? The latter, as has already been noted, is signed "Tician." "Tizian und Alfons von Este," Jahrbuch der Königlich Preussischen Kunstsammlungen, Fünfzehnter Band, II. Heft, 1894.
Just then Benjamin Dorn came wabbling in: “The Chief would like to speak to Fräulein Jordan,” he said, and bent his long neck like a swan. Eleanore was surprised: what on earth could Herr Diruf want with her? Possibly it had to do with Benno. Alfons Diruf was sitting at his desk as she entered. He wrote one more line, and then stared at her.
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