She, too, was almost a stranger in Warsaw, and lonely. Each had their
work, and many hours each day were required for it; still, after the
first fortnight, they managed to meet often. Peter's time was hers,
for he had the habit of leaving his feature-letter for the quiet hours
of the night.

"I hate the name of Solwicz," she told him the first time he came to
her house, "especially from you. And you must call me _Berthe_,
not Bertha." In spite of her obvious lack of means, she had a few
friends of rare quality, and yet he did not meet them. On her table
that first day, he picked up a little book of poems, the leader of
which was entitled _We Are Free_. Peter had read it a few weeks
before and given it a quality of appreciation that was seldom called
in these days. Just now he noted that the volume was affectionately
inscribed to her from the author, Moritz Abel. She spoke of him and of
the group of young master workmen to which he belonged. Then she read
the poem, as they stood together. It was a moment of honor to the
poet. Peter had turned pale, and the little room was hushed about
them, as if Warsaw were suddenly stilled.

"You see what they are doing," she said. "There is a new race of
artists in Russia. They have passed the emotions---"

"This poem was due in the world," Peter said. "But it is still an age
ahead of the crowd."

"That's what makes it so hard for them--for him. He does not like
that. He would like to talk to all men straight. Moritz Abel--the name