Poor Mr. Wagner had taught me to smoke. I answered by offering my new
acquaintance a cigar.

"Another bond between us," cried Fritz. "We must be friends from this
moment. Give me your hand." We shook hands. He lit his cigar, looked at
me very attentively, looked away again, and puffed out his first mouthful
of smoke with a heavy sigh.

"I wonder whether we are united by a third bond?" he said thoughtfully.
"Are you a stiff Englishman? Tell me, friend David, may I speak to you
with the freedom of a supremely wretched man?"

"As freely as you like," I answered. He still hesitated.

"I want to be encouraged," he said. "Be familiar with me. Call me Fritz."

I called him "Fritz." He drew his chair close to mine, and laid his hand
affectionately on my shoulder. I began to think I had perhaps encouraged
him a little too readily.

"Are you in love, David?" He put the question just as coolly as if he had
asked me what o'clock it was.

I was young enough to blush. Fritz accepted the blush as a sufficient
answer. "Every moment I pass in your society," he cried with enthusiasm,
"I like you better--find you more eminently sympathetic. You are in love.
One word more--are there any obstacles in your way?"

There _were_ obstacles in my way. She was too old for me, and too poor