There were two men-servants in attendance, dressed in dark livery, who waited upon us with noiseless alacrity.  The dinner was exceedingly choice; there was nothing coarse or vulgar in the dishes—­no great heavy joints swimming in thin gravy a la Anglaise; no tureens of unpalatable sauce; no clumsy decanters filled with burning sherry or drowsy port.  The table itself was laid out in the most perfect taste, with the finest Venetian glass and old Dresden ware, in which tempting fruits gleamed amid clusters of glossy dark leaves.  Flowers in tall vases bloomed wherever they could be placed effectively; and in the centre of the board a small fountain played, tinkling as it rose and fell like a very faintly echoing fairy chime.  The wines that were served to us were most delicious, though their flavour was quite unknown to me—­one in especial, of a pale pink colour, that sparkled slightly as it was poured into my glass, seemed to me a kind of nectar of the gods, so soft it was to the palate.  The conversation, at first somewhat desultory, grew more concentrated as the time went on, though Zara spoke little and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts more than once.  The Prince, warmed with the wine and the general good cheer, became witty and amusing in his conversation; he was a man who had evidently seen a good deal of the world, and who was accustomed to take everything in life a la bagatelle.  He told us gay stories of his life in St. Petersburg; of the pranks he had played in the Florentine Carnival; of his journey to the American States, and his narrow escape from the matrimonial clutches of a Boston heiress.

Heliobas listened to him with a sort of indulgent kindness, only smiling now and then at the preposterous puns the young man would insist on making at every opportunity that presented itself.

“You are a lucky fellow, Ivan,” he said at last.  “You like the good things of life, and you have got them all without any trouble on your own part.  You are one of those men who have absolutely nothing to wish for.”

Prince Ivan frowned and pulled his dark moustache with no very satisfied air.

“I am not so sure about that,” he returned.  “No one is contented in this world, I believe.  There is always something left to desire, and the last thing longed for always seems the most necessary to happiness.”

“The truest philosophy,” said Heliobas, “is not to long for anything in particular, but to accept everything as it comes, and find out the reason of its coming.”

“What do you mean by ’the reason of its coming’?” questioned Prince Ivan.  “Do you know, Casimir, I find you sometimes as puzzling as Socrates.”