Mr. Keith was considerably denser than Count Caloveglia.  But even he, during this oration, could not help noticing that it jarred on his listener’s nerves; there was something wrong, he concluded.

Denis had not a word to say in reply.  As if anyone could be more suffering than himself!  He was full of a dumb ache.  He marvelled at Keith’s obtuseness.

“Come and see my cannas,” said the other with a kind of brutal tactfulness.  “There is a curious story attached to them.  I must tell it to you one of these days.  It sounds like a fairy tale.  You like fairy tales?”

“I do,” replied Denis.

“Then we have one point in common.  I could listen to them for hours.  There is something eternal about them.  If you ever want to get anything out of me, Denis, tell me a fairy tale.”

“I must remember that,” replied Denis with a wan smile.  “There is one thing I should very much like to get out of you; the secret of your zest in life.  You have so many interests.  How do you manage it?”

“Heredity, I suppose.  It has given me a kind of violent driving power.  I take things by the throat.  Have you ever heard of Thomas Keith, a soldier in a Highland regiment, who became governor of the Holy City of Medina?  No, I suppose you have not.  And yet he must have been a remarkable man, to obtain this unique position in the world.  No interest in Arabian history?  Why not?  Well, Thomas Keith—­that is my stock.  Pirates and adventurers.  Of course I live sensibly.  Shall I give you my recipe for happiness?  I find everything useful and nothing indispensable.  I find everything wonderful and nothing miraculous.  I reverence the body.  I avoid first causes like the plague.  You will find that a pretty good recipe, Denis.”

The young man wondered whether the prescription would be of any avail for his particular complaint.

Then they went into the garden, Mr. Keith hobbling painfully with two sticks and indulging in very bad language.  They paused awhile under some trellis work covered with a profusion of Japanese convolvuluses, pale blue, slate colour, rose-tinted, purple, deep red, with white and coloured bands, a marvellous display of fragile beauty.

“I have never seen anything like it!” declared Denis.

“They die away in winter.  I get fresh seeds every year from Japan, the latest varieties.  How they cling for support to the wooden framework!  How delicate and fair!  One hardly dares to touch them.  Are you always going to be a convolvulus, Denis?”

“Me?  Oh, I see what you mean.  Were you never a convolvulus, Mr. Keith?”

His friend laughed.

“It must have been a good while ago.  You don’t like advice, do you?  Have you ever heard of that Sparker affair?”

“You don’t mean to say—­”

“Yes.  That was me.  That was my little contribution to the gaiety of University life.  So you see I am in the position to give advice to people like yourself.  I think you should cultivate the function of the real, and try to remain in contact with phenomena.  Noumena are bad for a youngster.  But perhaps you are not interested in psychology?”