The Count, meanwhile, was looking with concern upon his companion’s grave face, whose flawless profile might have emerged into life under the thought-laden chisel of Lysippus.  He wondered what he could say or do to drive away this melancholy.  The youth had been so bright that day at the entertainment of the Duchess; he seemed to have stepped straight out of a sunny dialogue of Plato.  Serious trouble now shone out of his eyes.  Something had happened.  Something was wrong with him; wrong, too—­he reflected—­with a world which could find no better occupation for such a person than to hand round buttered tea-cakes at an old woman’s party to a crowd of cosmopolitan scandalmongers.

Denis rose, remarking: 

“I wish I could stay a little longer!  But it is getting so late.  I’m afraid I must be going.”

He held out his hand.

“You have caught me in a somewhat sad and depressed mood, I fear,” replied the other, heaving a most artistic sigh.  And his features suddenly looked quite careworn.  As a matter of fact, he had not been so joyous for many long years—­that news of Mr. van Koppen’s proximate arrival having made him feel fifty years younger and, but for his ingrained sense of Hellenic moderation, almost ready to dance with delight.

“I am sorry I have been so despondent,” he went on.  “Sometimes one cannot help oneself.  It shall not occur again!  I will try to be more amusing next time you come.  If I thought it would help, I would communicate my sorrows and claim your sympathy.  But what does it avail to unburden oneself?  Friends will share our joys, but every man is a solitary in his griefs.  One soon finds that out!  One soon realizes the vanity of all those talks about the consolations of philosophy and the comforts of religion, doesn’t one?  I suppose even you have your moments of dejection?”

“One worries about things now and then.  It is perfectly natural, I daresay.”

“Perfectly.  We are not stones—­least of all persons like yourself.  I would not be at your age again, not for the wealth of Croesus!  I suffered too much.  All young people suffer too much; they bear it silently, like heroes.  The eye of youth dilates and distorts the images.  The focussing process is painful.  Youth has no norm.  It was in one of my worst fits of despondency, I remember, that my old teacher gave me certain advice, after I had puzzled it out, did me some good.  In fact, I have acted upon it to this very day; I recall it as plainly as if he were speaking now.  Well, I am sorry you are leaving.  I would keep you hear if I could.  But I hope you will not forget to come another day.  You have cheered me up wonderfully!  Shall Andrea find you a carriage?”

“What did he say?” asked Denis.