“I’ve met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I’ve met him in pensions in Berlin and Munich.  He lives in small hotels in Perugia and Assisi.  He stands by the dozen before the Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all the benches of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.  In Italy he drinks a little too much wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer.  He always admires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these days he’s going to write a great work.  Think of it, there are a hundred and forty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and forty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those hundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written.  And yet the world goes on.”

Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end of his long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that the American was making fun of him.

“You do talk rot,” he said crossly.

XXVII

Weeks had two little rooms at the back of Frau Erlin’s house, and one of them, arranged as a parlour, was comfortable enough for him to invite people to sit in.  After supper, urged perhaps by the impish humour which was the despair of his friends in Cambridge, Mass., he often asked Philip and Hayward to come in for a chat.  He received them with elaborate courtesy and insisted on their sitting in the only two comfortable chairs in the room.  Though he did not drink himself, with a politeness of which Philip recognised the irony, he put a couple of bottles of beer at Hayward’s elbow, and he insisted on lighting matches whenever in the heat of argument Hayward’s pipe went out.  At the beginning of their acquaintance Hayward, as a member of so celebrated a university, had adopted a patronising attitude towards Weeks, who was a graduate of Harvard; and when by chance the conversation turned upon the Greek tragedians, a subject upon which Hayward felt he spoke with authority, he had assumed the air that it was his part to give information rather than to exchange ideas.  Weeks had listened politely, with smiling modesty, till Hayward finished; then he asked one or two insidious questions, so innocent in appearance that Hayward, not seeing into what a quandary they led him, answered blandly; Weeks made a courteous objection, then a correction of fact, after that a quotation from some little known Latin commentator, then a reference to a German authority; and the fact was disclosed that he was a scholar.  With smiling ease, apologetically, Weeks tore to pieces all that Hayward had said; with elaborate civility he displayed the superficiality of his attainments.  He mocked him with gentle irony.  Philip could not help seeing that Hayward looked a perfect fool, and Hayward had not the sense to hold his tongue; in his irritation, his self-assurance undaunted, he attempted to argue:  he made wild statements and Weeks amicably corrected them; he reasoned falsely and Weeks proved that he was absurd:  Weeks confessed that he had taught Greek Literature at Harvard.  Hayward gave a laugh of scorn.