'The question is,' he murmured angrily, 'am I or am I not an ass?... At
my age!'

He felt vaguely that he was not, that he was rather a splendid and
Byronic figure in the grip of tremendous emotions.

Having regretfully finished the tea, he unlocked a bookcase, and picked
out at random a volume of Boswell's 'Johnson.' It was the modern Oxford
edition--the only edition worthy of a true amateur--bound by Rivière.
Like all wise and lettered men, Hugo consulted Boswell in the grave
crises of life, and to-night he happened upon the venerable Johnson's
remark: _'Sir, I would be content to spend the remainder of my existence
driving about in a post-chaise with a pretty woman.'_

He leaned back in his chair and laughed. 'In the whole history of
mankind,' he asserted to the dome, 'there have only been two really
sensible men. Solomon was one, and Johnson the other.'

He restored the book to its place, and sat down to the piano-player, and
in a moment the overture to 'Tannhäuser,' that sublime failure to prove
that passion is folly, filled the vast apartment. The rushing violin
passages, and every call of Aphrodite, intoxicated his soul and raised
his spirits till he knew with the certainty of a fully-aroused instinct
that Camilla Payne must be his. He became optimistic on all points.

'A lady insists on seeing you, sir,' said Simon Shawn, intruding upon
the Pilgrims' Chant.

'She may insist,' Hugo answered lightly. 'But it all depends who she is.