But Claudius was of a tough nature, and minded neither heat nor cold;
only when a large bluebottle fly buzzed round his nose he whisked his
broad hat to drive the tormentor away, and said to himself that summer
had its drawbacks even in Germany, though there were certainly more
flies and mosquitoes and evil beasts on the wing in Sweden during the
two months' heat there. On the whole, he was pretty comfortable among
the ruins on this June day, though he ought to begin considering where
his summer foot tour was to take him this year. It might be as well,
certainly. Where could he go? There was the Black Forest, but he knew
that thoroughly; Bohemia--he had been there; Switzerland; the
Engadine--yes, he would go back to Pontresina and see what it had grown
into since he was there six years ago. It used to be a delightful place
then, as different from St. Moritz as anything could well be. Only
students and artists and an occasional sturdy English climber used to go
to Pontresina, while all Europe congregated at St. Moritz half a dozen
miles away. He would go there as he went everywhere, with a knapsack and
a thick stick and a few guldens in his pocket, and be happy, if so be
that he had any capacity for enjoyment left in him.

"It is absurd," said Claudius to himself, argumentatively. "I am barely
thirty years old, as strong as an ox, and I have just inherited more
money than I know what to do with, and I feel like an old cripple of
ninety, who has nothing left to live for. It must be morbid imagination
or liver complaint, or something."

But it was neither liver nor imagination, for it was perfectly genuine.
Tired of writing, tired of reading, of seeing, of hearing, and speaking;
and yet blessed with a constitution that bid fair to carry him through
another sixty years of life. He tried to argue about it. Was it possible
that it came of living in a foreign country with whose people he had but