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Even Harry, who was here, who brought me the news, in fact, had

no idea what I was going through. I suffered immensely. Then it

passed away. I cannot repeat an emotion. No one can, except

sentimentalists. And you are awfully unjust, Basil. You come down

here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me

consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person! You

remind me of a story Harry told me about a certain philanthropist

who spent twenty years of his life in trying to get some

grievance redressed, or some unjust law altered-I forget exactly

what it was. Finally he succeeded, and nothing could exceed his

disappointment. He had absolutely nothing to do, almost died of

ennui, and became a confirmed misanthrope. And besides, my dear

old Basil, if you really want to console me, teach me rather to

forget what has happened, or to see it from a proper artistic

point of view. Was it not Gautier who used to write about _la

consolation des arts_?