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 on a meeting, hardly wrote to her and did nothing but wait in an arm-chair for her to come, or at least to let him know what had happened. There were a few sunshiny days and he ventured into the park, wrapped up in a rug. He wanted to wander about by himself with his dark thoughts near the lake, but there were always with him Krafft, Paul, Holz, Rohn, or the charming! and dreamy poet Charles, who always had something on the tip of his tongue but never said it. Instead he discoursed on science, personal courage, success and heroism and God knows what else. Prokop listened with one ear; he had the impression that the Prince was making a special effort for some reason or other to interest him in ambition. Then one day he received a roughly scrawled note from the Princess, telling him to wait and not to be shy. Directly afterwards Rohn introduced him to a laconic old gentleman in whose bearing everything revealed the officer disguised as a civilian. The laconic gentleman inquired of Prokop what he proposed to do in the future. Prokop, somewhat nettled by his tone, answered sharply and magnificently that he was going to exploit his inventions.

“Military inventions?”

“I’m not a soldier.”

“Your age?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Occupation?”

“None. And yours?”

The laconic person became rather confused. “Do you intend to sell your inventions?”

“No.” He felt that he was being examined and