February 18, 1914.
Rome, Hotel "Internationale."
Yesterday I visited Magnus. I was compelled to wait long for him, in
the garden, and when he did appear he was so cold and indifferent that
I felt like leaving. I observed a few gray hairs in his black beard. I
had not noticed them before. Was Maria unwell? I appeared concerned.
Everything here is so uncertain that on leaving a person for one hour
one may have to seek him in eternity."
"Maria is well, thank you," replied Magnus, frigidly. He seemed
surprised as if my question were presumptuous and improper. "And how
are your affairs, Mr. Wondergood? The Roman papers are filled with
news of you. You are scoring a big success."
With pain aggravated by the absence of Maria, I revealed to Magnus
my disappointment and my ennui. I spoke well, not without wit and
sarcasm. I grew more and more provoked by his lack of attention and
interest, plainly written on his pale and weary face. Not once did he
smile or venture to put any questions, but when I reached the story of
my "nephew" he frowned in displeasure and said:
"Fie! This is a cheap variety farce! How can you occupy yourself with
such trifles, Mr. Wondergood?"