master is a mysterious and inexplicable dispenser of joys and sorrows. His
caresses and his beatings are alike mysterious; their reasons seldom to be
discerned, never fully understood.

Sometimes in this court where the sinners are haled, where "poised and
prim and particular, society stately sits," his honor has a moment of
confusion. Eyes lift themselves to him, eyes dumb and brimming with
pathos. Eyes stare out of sordid faces, evil faces, wasted faces and say
something not admissible as evidence. Eyes say: "I don't know, I don't
know. What is it all about?"

These are not to be confused with the eyes that plead shrewdly for mercy,
with eyes that feign dramatic naivetes and offer themselves like primping
little penitents to his honor. His honor knows them fairly well. And
understands them. They are eyes still bargaining with life.

But Fanny's eyes. Yes, the judge would like to know. A vagueness comes
into his precise mind. He half-hears the familiar accusation that the
policeman drones, a terribly matter-of-fact drone.

Another raid on a suspected flat. Routine, routine. Evil has its eternal
root in the cities. A tireless Satan, bored with the monotony of his role;
a tireless Justice, bored with the routine of tears and pleadings, lies
and guilt.

There is no story in all this. Once his honor, walking home from a
banquet, looked up and noticed the stars. Meaningless, immutable stars.
There was nothing to be seen by looking at them. They were mysteries to be
dismissed. Like the mystery of Fanny's eyes. Meaningless, immutable eyes.
They do not bargain. Yet the world stares out of them. The face looks