would not interest me--yours is the only company I prefer to
solitude. Books? I am too old to take pleasure in learning new
things, and what I have learned has ceased to interest me. It is not
always easy to get what might do one good, and we must take things
as they are."

Hermann noticed, as before, that his friend ate little, but that, on
the other hand, he drank a great deal. The sincere friendship he
felt for him emboldened him to make a remark on the subject.

"It is true," said Warren, "I drink too much; but what can I do?
Food is distasteful to me, and I must keep up my strength somehow. I
am in a wretched state; my health is ruined."

One evening, as the two friends were seated together in Warren's
room, while the wind and sleet were beating against the window-
panes, the invalid began of his own accord to speak about Ellen.

"We now correspond regularly," he said. "She tells me in her last
letter that she hopes soon to see me. Do you know, Hermann, that she
is becoming an enigma for me? It is very evident that she does not
treat me like other people, and I often wonder and ask myself what I
am in her eyes? What does she feel towards me? Love? That is
inadmissible. Pity, perhaps? This then, is the end of my grand
dreams--to be an object of pity? I have just answered her letter to
say that I am settled here with the fixed intention of ending my
useless existence in quiet and idleness. Do you remember a scene in
Henry Heine's 'Reisebilder,' when a young student kisses a pretty
girl, who lets him have his own way and makes no great resistance,
because he has told her, 'I will be gone to-morrow at dawn, and I