less
comfortable conditions of the universe. He was all for nature and
liberty, whereas I had now come to realise the charm of the artificial,
and the social value of constraint.

"Young man," I cried in my heart, "what shall I do to inherit Eternal
Youth?"

The gulf between us was further revealed when, at length coming to our
inn, we sat down to dinner. To me it seemed the most natural thing in
the world to call for the wine-list and consult his choice of wine;
but, will you believe me, he asked to be allowed to drink water! And
when he quoted the dear old stock nonsense out of Thoreau about being
able to get intoxicated on a glass of water, I could have laughed and
cried at the same time.

"Happy Boy!" I cried, "still able to turn water into wine by the divine
power of your youth"; and then, turning to the waiter, I ordered a
bottle of No. 37.

"Wine is the only youth granted to middle age," I continued,--"in vino
juventus, one might say; and may you, my dear young friend, long remain
so proudly independent of that great Elixir--though I confess that I
have met no few young men under thirty who have been excellent critics
of the wine-list."

As the water warmed him, he began to expand into further confidence,
and then he told me the story of his Shelley, if a story it can be
called. For, of course, it was simple enough, and the reader has long
since guessed that the reason why he wouldn't lose his Shelley for the
world was the usual simple reason.

I listened to his rhapsodies of HER and HER and HER with an aching
heart. How good it was to be young! No wonder men had so desperately
sought the secret of Eternal Youth! Who would not be young for ever,
for such dreams and such an appetite?

Here of course was the very heaven-sent confidant for such an
enterprise as mine. I told him all about my whim, just for the pleasure
of watching his face light up with youth's generous worship of all such
fantastic nonsense. You should have seen his enthusiasm and heard all
the things he said. Why, to encounter such a whimsical fellow as myself
in this unimaginative age was like meeting a fairy prince, or coming
unexpectedly upon Don Quixote attacking the windmill. I offered him
the post of Sancho Panza; and indeed what would he not give, he said,
to leave all and follow me! But then I reminded him that he had
already found his Golden Girl.

"Of course, I forgot," he said, with I'm afraid something of a sigh.
F