tatic adjectives, and wild interjections and
enthusiatic superlatives would fly buzzing about your ears until
language would seem to be at its last gasp, and for a week to come the
positive and comparative degrees would be applicable only to your
enemies.

It was an open secret that the Countess von Brehm, one of the richest
heiresses in the kingdom, was madly in love with him and would
probably bestow her hand upon him in defiance of the wishes and
traditions of her family. And what man, outside of the royal house,
would be fool enough to refuse the hand of a Countess von Brehm?

II.

During the winter 1865-66, I met Dannevig frequently at clubs, student
festivals, and social gatherings, and his melodious voice, his
epigrammatic talk, and his beauty never failed to extort from me a
certain amount of reluctant admiration. I could not help noticing,
however, that his charming qualities were all very much on the
surface, and as for his beauty, it was of a purely physical kind. As a
mere animal he could not have been finer. His eyes were as pure and
blue and irresponsible as a pair of spring violets, and his face was
as clean-cut and perfect as an ideal Greek mask, and as devoid of
spiritual meaning. His animation was charmingly heedless and genuine,
but nevertheless was mere surface glitter and never seemed to be the
expression of any really strong and heartfelt emotion. I could well
imagine him pouting like Achilles over the loss of a lovely Briseis
and bursting into vituperative language at the sight of the robber;
but the very moment Briseis was restored his wrath would as suddenly
have given way to the absolute bliss of possession.

The evening before my final departure from Copenhagen he gave a little
party for me at his apartments, at which a dozen or more of our
friends were invited.

I must admit that he was an admirable host. Without appearing at all
to exert himself, he made every one feel at his ease, filled up every
gap in the conversation with some droll anecdote or personal
reminiscence, and still contrived to make us all imagine that we were
entertaining instead of being entertained. The supper was a miracle of
culinary skill, and the wines had a most refined and aristocratic
flavor. He ate and drank with the deliberation and relish of a man
who, without being exactly a gourmand, nevertheless counted the art of
dining among the fine arts, and prided himself on being something of a
connoisseur. No