Rome, Hotel “Internationale.”
Yesterday I visited Magnus. I was compelled to wait long for him, in the garden, and when he did appear he was so cold and indifferent that I felt like leaving. I observed a few gray hairs in his black beard. I had not noticed them before. Was Maria unwell? I appeared concerned. Everything here is so uncertain that on leaving a person for one hour one may have to seek him in [eternity].”
“Maria is well, thank you,” replied Magnus, frigidly. He seemed surprised as if my question were presumptuous and improper. “And how are your affairs, Mr. Wondergood? The Roman papers are filled with news of you. You are scoring a big success.”
With pain aggravated by the absence of Maria, I revealed to Magnus my disappointment and my ennui. I spoke well, not without wit and sarcasm. I grew more and more provoked by his lack of attention and interest, plainly written on his pale and weary face. Not once did he smile or venture to put any questions, but when I reached the story of my “nephew” he frowned in displeasure and said:
“Fie! This is a cheap variety farce! How can you occupy yourself with such trifles, Mr. Wondergood?”
I replied angrily:
“But it is not I who am occupying myself with them, Signor Magnus!”
“And how about the interviews? What about that flight of yours? You should drive them away. This humbles your...three billions. And is it true that you delivered some sort of a sermon?”
The joy of play forsook me. Unwilling as Magnus was to listen to me, I told him all about my sermon and those credulous fools who swallowed sacrilege as they do marmalade.
“And did you expect anything different, Mr. Wondergood?”