Thiel looked at him inquiringly.
"My birthday," said Linden mournfully.
"Why, to be sure," cried Thiel, "let me see, what one is it?"
"No number," interrupted Linden quickly, covering his friend's mouth with his hand.
"You're worse than a coquette," remarked Thiel, pushing his hand away. He had had "an old coquette" on the tip of his tongue, but suppressed the adjective. "A man can speak of his age without regret, when he is only in the mid-forties."
"Not yet the middle, I beg of you," Linden eagerly protested, "I am forty-four years old to-day."
Thiel smiled. "Well, I wish you many happy——"
Linden did not let him finish. "Happiness! Happiness! Is there any happiness after youth is over?"
"Everything depends upon what is meant by happiness."
Linden did not seem to hear what Thiel was saying, but pursued his own train of thought. "How futile your science is! You find a bacillus here, a ptomain there. What use is that to me? None! Teach me how to keep young forever, then I shall have some respect for your staring into your beloved microscope. The ancients alone were right in that, as in everything else. To die young. In undiminished vigour. The gods can bestow no greater happiness. What is there to seek in life when youth has fled?"