hich too vividly recalled to me the
mortifying history.

He humoured me on this point, but he could not refrain from privately
carrying on his investigations in pastry-cooks' shops, the more that he
was devotedly addicted to cakes and sweet things. It was then
midsummer, and the small round cherry tarts were wonderfully refreshing
to an upper class student's tongue, parched and dry with Latin and
Greek. Bastel most seriously asserted that sweets agreed with his
voice; he was only able to temper the harshness of his bass notes by
plenty of sugar and fruit-juice. I on the contrary, despised such
insipid dainties, and preferred to stick to wine, which at that time
did very little indeed to clear up any mind I had. But in virtue of my
calling I was bound to worship "wine, women, and song," and in the
volume of poems at which I was working hard, there was, of course, to
be no lack of drinking-songs.

We had now reached July, and the dog-days were beginning, when one
afternoon Bastel made his appearance at the usual hour, but in very
unusual mood. He lit his cigar indeed, but instead of sitting down to
smoke it, he stood motionless at the window for a full quarter of an
hour, drumming "_Non piu andrai_" on the panes, and from time to time
sighing as though a hundredweight lay on his heart.

"Bastel," said I, "what's wrong?"

No answer.

"Are you ill?" I went on; "or have you had another row with the
ordinary? or did the college yesterday give you a bad reception?" (He
belonged to a certain secret society much frequented by students, and
wore in his waistcoat pocket a tricoloured watch-ribbon which only
ventured forth at their solemn meetings.)

Still the same silence on the part of the strange dreamer, and the
drumming grew so vehement that the panes began to ring ominously.

It was only when I left off noticing him, that he incoherently began to
talk to himself, "There are more things in heaven and earth--" but
further he did not carry the quotation.

At last I jumped up, went to him, and caught hold of his hand.
"Bastel!" I cried, "what does this fooling mean? Something or other is
vexing you. Tell it out, and let us see what can be done, but at least
spare my window-panes and behave rationally. Will you light another
cigar?"

He shook his head. "If you have time," said he, "let's go out, I may be
able to tell you in the open air. This room is so close."

We went down stairs and wandered arm-in-arm through quie