“Well, my young friend,” he said, sitting down and elegantly crossing his legs, while, the better to survey the sorry hero of the tragedy, he adjusted his eye-glass with that peculiar grimace common to those thus decorated. “You look a little the worse for Mademoiselle Andromache’s last embrace—eh?” he queried, and turned with a smile to the popular poet.
“He has the air of Endymion after the desertion of Diana,” said the poet.
“Was Endymion deserted? Faith, that is a piece of mythological information for me. We live and learn, eh, Ehrenstein?”
“I suppose so,” said Rudolph, drearily. “The learning is not more pleasant than the living.”
“You charming boy! so delightful to know that innocence still flourishes in our midst. The century is exhausted, but a young heart is a perennial fount of misery. For, my young friend, there is no more sure prophecy of youth and innocence than utter woe and dejection. If you give him time, Michaelopoulos will put that into a neat verse for you.”
“Don’t, pray. I hate poetry,” cried Rudolph.
“It is, I believe, on record that babes have been known to hate milk,” said Agiropoulos, blandly.
“Don’t weary me with smart talk. I have other things to think of, Agiropoulos, and cannot listen to your witticisms,” protested Rudolph.
“Don’t mention it. I will be dull to please you. May a poor forsaken wretch inquire after the health of a quondam mistress?”