Not that he showed them specially to any one; but he generally sent a specimen of his work to the Monthly Photograph Portfolio, and hence it was that people learned to know of his skill.

He might be seen any fine day trudging along in company with his photographic apparatus, and a desolate dog, who looked almost as cheerless as his chosen comrade.

Neither the one took any notice of the other; Allitsen was no more genial to the dog than he was to the Kurhaus guests; the dog was no more demonstrative to Robert Allitsen than he was to any one in Petershof.
Still, they were "something" to each other, that unexplainable "something" which has to explain almost every kind of attachment.
He had no friends in Petershof, and apparently had no friends anywhere.
No one wrote to him, except his old mother; the papers which were sent to him came from a stationer's.
He read all during meal-time.

But now and again he spoke a few words with Bernardine Holme, whose place was next to him.

It never occurred to him to say good morning, nor to give a greeting of any kind, nor to show a courtesy.