Sigmund sighed deeply.
"Yes, we were young then," Wolf said, closing the retrospect.
"And you at least know that you have been young. You possess beautiful memories, of which nothing and no one can deprive you.
"'Who'er has been clasped in the arms of love,
All poverty's ills is for aye raised above;
E'en though he should die afar and alone,
Still would he possess the blissful hour
When kisses upon her lips he did shower,
And, e'en in death, she would yet be his own.'"
"Yours?" asked Wolf.
"Nonsense, that's no mathematician's poetry. Old Storm."
"The feeling is true, though it is somewhat insipidly expressed. Memories are indeed wealth, though it arouses melancholy to rummage amid the treasure."
"Tell me, Wolf—what has become of Helene?"
"I hope she is faring very well."
"You do not know?"