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 light suit, and his trousers were most properly creased (Jiří frequently cast an envious glance at them, thinking to himself: “What a fine fashion! He is a nice fellow!”) He knew everything and spoke of everything. He was all things imaginable, a politician, a critic, and a literary man; he was a soldier of the press in Prague, and he supplied five country sheets with weighty discussions on our situation; in the columns which were at his disposal, he now and then vented his spleen upon this and that man, sullying his name, his honor, and all his labors (referring to these articles, he used to say; “I have this day written some social news from Prague”). He knew all about French, Russian, Croatian, and Polish affairs. He was a phenomenon, a pillar of social purity, a secret messenger of embassies, a man of strength who knew how to make excellent use of every bit of gossip,—in short, a man worth his weight in gold.

At dinner he treated the two ladies with