beside him and rolled a cigarette in his palm with one hand while he felt
in his pocket for a match with the other. Then, in the midst of a great
cloud of fragrant smoke, he sat down upon the edge of his cutting-block
and looked at his companions. After a few moments of deep thought he gave
expression to his meditations in bad German. It is curious to see how
readily the Slavs in Germany fall into the habit of using the language of
the country when conversing together.

"It is my opinion," he said at last, "that the most objectless existences
are those which most exactly accomplish the object set before them."

Having given vent to this bit of paradox, Johann inhaled as much smoke as
his leathery lungs could contain and relapsed into silence. Vjera, the
Polish girl, glanced at the tobacco-cutter and went on with her work. The
insignificant girl beside her giggled vacantly. Dumnoff did not seem to
have heard the remark.

"Nineteen hundred and twenty-three," muttered the Count between his teeth
and in Russian, as the nineteenth hundred and twenty-third cigarette
rolled from his fingers, and he took up the parchment tongue for the
nineteenth hundred and twenty-fourth time that day.

"I do not exactly understand you, Herr Schmidt," said Vjera without
looking up again. "An objectless life has no object. How then--"

"There is nothing to understand," growled Dumnoff, who never counted his
own work, and always enjoyed a bit of conversation, provided he could
abuse something or somebody. "There is nothing in it, and Herr Schmidt is
a Landau moss-head."