Warren spent another week in Leipzig with his friend.  No man was easier to live with:  to every suggestion of Hermann’s he invariably answered, “Very well;” and if Hermann proposed nothing, he was quite content to remain seated in a comfortable arm-chair by the fireside, holding a book which he scarcely looked at, and watching the long rolls of smoke from his pipe.  He disliked new acquaintances; nevertheless, the friends to whom Hermann introduced him found in him a quiet, unobtrusive, and well-informed companion.  He pleased everybody.  There was something strange and yet attractive in his person; there was a “charm” about him, people said.  Hermann felt the attraction without being able to define in what it consisted.  Their former friendship had been renewed unreservedly.  The kind of fascination that Warren exercised over all those who approached him often led Hermann to think that it was not unlikely that in his youth he had inspired a real love in Ellen Gilmore.

One evening Hermann took his friend to the theatre, where a comic piece was being performed.  In his young days Warren had been very partial to plays of that kind, and his joyous peals of laughter on such occasions still rang in the ears of his friend.  But the attempt was a complete failure.  Warren watched the performance without showing the slightest interest, and never even smiled.  During the opening scenes he listened with attention, as though he were assisting at some performance of the legitimate drama; then, as if he could not understand what was going on before his eyes, he turned away with a wearied air and began looking at the audience.  When, at the close of the second act, Hermann proposed that they should leave the house, he answered readily: 

“Yes, let us go; all this seems very stupid—­we will be much better at home.  There is a time for all things, and buffoonery suits me no longer.”

There was nothing left in Warren of the friend that Hermann had known fifteen years before.  He loved him none the less; on the contrary, to his affection for him had been superadded a feeling of deep compassion.  He would have made great sacrifices to secure his friend’s happiness, and to see a smile light up the immovable features and the sorrowful dulness of the eye.  His friendly anxiety had not been lost upon Warren; and when the latter took his leave, he said with emotion: 

“You wish me well, my old friend, I see it and feel it; and, believe me, I am grateful.  We must not lose sight of each other again—­I will write regularly.”

A few days later, Hermann received a letter for his friend.  It was an American letter, and the envelope was stamped with the initials “E.  H.”  They were those of Ellen Howard, the heroine of Warren’s sad history.  He forwarded the letter immediately, and wrote at the same time to his friend:  “I hope the inclosed brings you good news from America.”  But in his reply Warren took no notice of this passage, and made no allusion to Ellen.  He only spoke of the new house in which he had just settled himself—­“to end,” as he said, “his days;” and he pressed Hermann to come and join him.  The two friends at last agreed to pass Christmas and New Year’s Day together; but when December came, Warren urged his friend to hasten his arrival.