He himself seemed quite unchanged, just as old, just as young as ever.
He proposed we should go for a walk, and we talked of secondary matters, not of the past.
I remembered that I had written to him several times, without having received an answer.
I hoped he had forgotten this as well, those silly, silly letters.
He made no mention of them. At that time there was no Beatrice and no picture, I was still in the period of my dissipation.
Outside the town I invited him to come with me into an inn.
He came. With much ostentation I ordered a bottle of wine and filled a couple of glasses.
I clinked glasses with him, showing him how conversant I was with student drinking customs, and I emptied my first glass at a gulp.
Do you frequent public houses often?he asked me.
“Oh yes,” I said with a drawl, “what else is there to do? It’s certainly more amusing than anything else; after all.”
“You think so? Perhaps. It may be so. There’s certainly something very pleasing about it —intoxication, bacchanalian orgies!
But I find, with most people who frequent public houses, this sense of abandon is lost.
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