This was what I could not understand; but it was pleasant to hear, and I made no further objection.  ‘And how long will it go on?’ I said.

‘So long as it pleases you,’ said the old courtier.

How he smiled!  His smile did not please me.  He saw this, and distracted my attention.  ‘Look at this dance,’ he said; ’how beautiful are those round young limbs!  Look how the dress conceals yet shows the form and beautiful movements!  It was invented in your honor.  All that is lovely is for you.  Choose where you will, all is yours.  We live only for this; all is for you.’  While he spoke, the dancers came nearer and nearer till they circled us round, and danced and made their pretty obeisances, and sang, ‘All is yours; all is for you;’ then breaking their lines, floated away in other circles and processions and endless groups, singing and laughing till it seemed to ring from every side, ’Everything is yours; all is for you.’

I accepted this flattery I know not why, for I soon became aware that I was no more than others, and that the same words were said to every new-comer.  Yet my heart was elated, and I threw myself into all that was set before me.  But there was always in my mind an expectation that presently the music and the dancing would cease, and the tables be withdrawn, and a pause come.  At one of the feasts I was placed by the side of a lady very fair and richly dressed, but with a look of great weariness in her eyes.  She turned her beautiful face to me, not with any show of pleasure, and there was something like compassion in her look.  She said, ‘You are very tired,’ as she made room for me by her side.

‘Yes,’ I said, though with surprise, for I had not yet acknowledged that even to myself.  ’There is so much to enjoy.  We have need of a little rest.’

‘Of rest!’ said she, shaking her head, ‘this is not the place for rest.’

‘Yet pleasure requires it,’ I said, ‘as much as—­’ I was about to say pain; but why should one speak of pain in a place given up to pleasure?  She smiled faintly and shook her head again.  All her movements were languid and faint; her eyelids drooped over her eyes.  Yet when I turned to her, she made an effort to smile.  ’I think you are also tired,’ I said.

At this she roused herself a little.  ’We must not say so; nor do I say so.  Pleasure is very exacting.  It demands more of you than anything else.  One must be always ready—­’

‘For what?’

‘To give enjoyment and to receive it.’  There was an effort in her voice to rise to this sentiment, but it fell back into weariness again.

‘I hope you receive as well as give,’ I said.

The lady turned her eyes to me with a look which I cannot forget, and life seemed once more to be roused within her, but not the life of pleasure; her eyes were full of loathing and fatigue and disgust and despair.  ‘Are you so new to this place,’ she said, ’and have not learned even yet what is the height of all misery and all weariness; what is worse than pain and trouble, more dreadful than the lawless streets and the burning mines, and the torture of the great hall and the misery of the lazar-house—­’