“What is the matter?”

“What?⁠—Well.⁠ ⁠… Merely that I am dead sick of it; everybody keeps on: ‘the death-sentence, the death-sentence!’ I want to hear no more of it! You understand? I do not want.⁠ ⁠…” He became serious, rubbing his neck⁠—that little valise filled with luggage which I cannot understand. A silence. There! He found something in that little valise of his, removed it, unwrapped it, spread it out; his eyes became covered with the varnish of laughter. He began:

“I am writing something for your Integral . Yes.⁠ ⁠… I am!” He was himself again; bubbling, sprinkling lips; words splashing like a fountain.