ague, yet it seemed to me less ominous that he
should be simply smitten than that his admiration should pique itself on
being discriminating. It was on his fundamental simplicity that I
counted for a happy termination of his experiment, and the former of
these alternatives seemed to me the simpler. I resolved to hold my
tongue and let him run his course. He had a great deal to say about his
happiness, about the days passing like hours, the hours like minutes, and
about Madame Blumenthal being a "revelation." "She was nothing
to-night," he said; "nothing to what she sometimes is in the way of
brilliancy--in the way of repartee. If you could only hear her when she
tells her adventures!"

"Adventures?" I inquired. "Has she had adventures?"

"Of the most wonderful sort!" cried Pickering, with rapture. "She hasn't
vegetated, like me! She has lived in the tumult of life. When I listen
to her reminiscences, it's like hearing the opening tumult of one of
Beethoven's symphonies as it loses itself in a triumphant harmony of
beauty and faith!"

I could only lift my eyebrows, but I desired to know before we separated
what he had done with that troublesome conscience of his. "I suppose you
know, my dear fellow," I said, "that you are simply in love. That's what
they happen to call your state of mind."

He replied with a brightening eye, as if he were delighted to hear it--"So
Madame Blumenthal told me only this morning!" And seeing, I suppose,
that I was slightly puzzled, "I went to drive with her," he continued;
"we drove to Konigstein, to see the old castle. We scrambled up into the
heart of the ruin and sat for an hour in one of the crumbling old courts.
Something in the solemn stillness of the place unloosed my tongue; and
while she sat on an ivied stone, on the edge of the plunging wall, I
stood there and made a speech. She listened to me, looking at me,
breaking off little bits of stone and letting them drop down into the
valley. At last she got up and nodded at me two or three times silently,
with a smile, as if she were applauding me for a solo on the violin. 'You
are in love,' she said. 'It's a perfect case!' And for some time she
said nothing more. But before we left the place she told me that she
owed me an answer to my speech. She thanked me heartily, but she was
afraid that if she took me at my word she would be taking advantage of my
inexperience. I had known few women; I was too easily pleased;