Then perhaps he allows to himself that he really does care a little, and
he loses some of his incrustation of vanity. He feels less sure of
himself, and his companions observe that he ceases to talk of his
alleged good fortunes. Very, very slowly his real heart wakes up, and
whatever is manly and serious and gentle in his nature comes
unconsciously to the surface. Henceforth he knows he loves, and because
his love has been slow to develop itself it is not necessarily sluggish
or deficient when once it is come. But Englishmen are rarely heroic
lovers except in their novels. There is generally a little bypath of
caution, a postern gate of mercantile foresight, by which they can slip
quietly out at the right moment and forget all about the whole thing.

Claudius was not an Englishman, but a Scandinavian, and he differed from
the imaginary young man described above in that he had a great broad
reverence of woman and for woman's love. But it was all a theory, of
which the practice to him was as yet unknown. He had soon wearied of the
class of women he had met in his student-life--chiefly the daughters of
respectable Heidelberg Philistines, of various degrees of south Teutonic
prettiness; and the beautiful women of the world, of whom he had caught
a glimpse in his travels had never seemed real enough to him to be in
any way approached. He never had realised that his own personality,
combined with his faultless manners, would have soon made him a
favourite in what is called society, had he chosen to court it.

After all, it was very vague this passing fancy for the dark-eyed woman
of the Schloss. Perhaps Dr. Claudius watched his symptoms too narrowly,
and was overmuch pleased at finding that something could still rouse a
youthful thrill in him, after the sensation of old age that had of late
oppressed him. A man, he said to himself, is not old so long as he can
love--and be loved--well, so long as he can love, say, and let the rest