No, my dear friend, a rose like that never fades--even as my love for the gracious giver can never die.
The Princess.
But you haven't even got it yet!
Strübel.
That makes no difference in the end. I'm entirely independent of such externals. When some day I shall be explaining Ovid to the beginners, or perhaps even reading Horace with the more advanced classes--no, it's better for the present not to think of reaching any such dizzy heights of greatness--well, then I shall always be saying to myself with a smile of satisfaction, "You, too, were one of those confounded artist fellows--why, you once went so far as to love a princess!"
The Princess.
And that will make you happy?
Strübel.
Enormously!--For what makes us happy after all? A bit of happiness? Great heavens, no! Happiness wears out like an old glove.
The Princess.