“I am the weakest, most gullible fool,” he thought, as he watched Gerda spreading a large slice of bread and then very deliberately taking little bites out of it, “ever born into the world. I oughtn’t to be called Wolf Solent at all! I ought to be called Mr. Thin Soup or Mr. Weak Beer.”

“Aren’t you going to give me a cigarette?” asked Gerda.

He got up to obey, and it seemed to him as if the physical effort it required to hand her what she demanded and to hold towards her a lighted match, were the heaviest material task he had ever stretched his muscles to perform.

He lighted one for himself, however, and resumed his seat.