The young men joined in the chorus.
Crammon applauded with just two fingers. “There is a sting in my soul,” he whispered into the din. He got up and left the room.
In the corridor the head-waiter Ferdinand was leaning alone and somewhat wearily against the frame of a mirror. A tender intimacy of two decades bound Crammon to this man, who had never in his life been indiscreet, in spite of the innumerable secrets he had overheard.
“Bad times, Ferdinand,” Crammon said. “The world is going to the deuce.”
“One must take things as they are, Herr von Crammon,” that dignified individual consoled him, and handed him the bill.
Crammon sighed. He gave directions that if his guests inquired after him, they were to be told that he was indisposed and had gone home.
“There is a sting in my soul,” he said, when he found himself on the street. He determined to travel again.
He yearned for his friend. It seemed to him that he had had no friend but that one who had cast him off.
He yearned for Ariel. It seemed to him that he had possessed no woman, because she had not yielded to him who was his very conception of genius and beauty.