Flemming went straight to his chamber.  On the way, he passed the walnut trees under which he had first seen the face of Mary Ashburton.  Involuntarily he closed his eyes.  They were full of tears.  O, there are places in this fair world, which we never wish to see again, however dear they may be to us!  The towers of the old Franciscan convent never looked so gloomily as then, though the bright summer sun was shining full upon them.

In his chamber he found Berkley.  He was looking out of the window, whistling.

“This evening I leave Interlachen forever,” said Flemming, rather abruptly.  Berkley stared.

“Indeed!  Pray what is the matter?  You look as pale as a ghost!”

“And have good reason to look pale,” replied Flemming bitterly.  “Hoffmann says, in one of his note-books, that, on the eleventh of March, at half past eight o’clock, precisely, he was an ass.  That is what I was this morning at half past ten o’clock, precisely, and am now, and I suppose always shall be.”

He tried to laugh, but could not.  He then related to Berkley the whole story, from beginning to end.

“This is a miserable piece of business!” exclaimed Berkley, when he had finished.  “Strange enough!  And yet I have long ceased to marvel at the caprices of women.  Did not Pan captivate the chaste Diana?  Did not Titania love Nick Bottom, with his ass’s head?  Do you think that maidens’ eyes are no longer touched with the juice of love-in-idleness!  Take my word for it, she is in love with somebody else.  There must be some reason for this.  No; women never have any reasons, except their will.  But never mind.  Keep a stout heart.  Care killed a cat.  After all,—­what is she?  Who is she?  Only a—­”

“Hush! hush,” exclaimed Flemming, in great excitement.  “Not one word more, I beseech you.  Do not think to console me, by depreciating her.  She is very dear to me still; a beautiful, high-minded, noble woman.”

“Yes,” answered Berkley; “that is the waywith you all, you young men.  You see a sweet face, or a something, you know not what, and flickering reason says, Good night; amen to common sense.  The imagination invests the beloved object with a thousand superlative charms; furnishes her with all the purple and fine linen, all the rich apparel and furniture, of human nature.  I did the same when I was young.  I was once as desperately in love as you are now; and went through all the

’Delicious deaths, soft exhalations

Of soul; dear and divine annihilations,

A thousand unknown rites

Of joys, and rarified delights.’

I adored and was rejected.  ’You are in love with certain attributes,’ said the lady.  ‘Damn your attributes, Madam,’ said I; ‘I know nothing of attributes.’  ‘Sir,’ said she, with dignity, ’you have been drinking.’  So we parted.  She was married afterwards to another, who knew something about attributes, I suppose.  I have seen her once since, and only once.  She had a baby in a yellow gown.  I hate a baby in a yellow gown.  How glad I am she did not marry me.  One of these days, you will be glad you have been rejected.  Take my word for it.”