I know men whose whole life goes in the service of a family with which they have become friendly, men who pass their days without desire beside a lovely woman whom they secretly adore. You are sceptical? Oh, it is the "without desire" that you object to? You may be right. In the depths of even the tamest heart there probably lurks a wild desire, but a desire--it is understood--that is held in check. I should like to give you an example and tell you of a conversation that two ancient gentlemen had with each other this very New Year's eve. You must not ask me how I found out about the conversation, and you must not tell it to any one else. May I begin? Picture, as the scene, a high-ceilinged room furnished in an old-fashioned style and dimly lighted by a green-shaded, brightly polished hanging lamp, such as our parents used before the era of kerosene; the light falling upon a round table covered with a white cloth and set with the ingredients for mixing a New Year's punch, and in the centre a few drippings of oil spreading slowly. My two ancient gentlemen sat half in the dimness cast by the green shade. Mouldy ruins they were of a time long past, each tremulously sunk in himself and each staring into space with the dim eyes and the dull look of old age. The one, the host, was a military man, as was clear at first glance from his closefitting stock, his pointed moustache, shaved off under the points, and his eyebrows knitted in a martial frown. He sat huddled in a rolling chair and clutched the handle of the steering rod with both hands like a crooked walking-stick. Nothing about him stirred except his lower jaw, which went up and down incessantly with a chewing movement. The other, who was sitting beside him on the sofa, was tall and thin, with narrow shoulders and the head of a thinker, angular and broad of brow. He drew skimpy clouds of smoke from a long pipe that was about to go out. Snowy white curls framed his face, and in the thousand fine lines of his smooth, dried-up skin nestled a soft, quiet smile, such as nothing but the peace of renunciation can impress upon an aged countenance. They sat without talking. In the silence you could hear the slight bubbling of the burning oil mingled with the slight bubbling of the tobacco juice. Then the clock on the wall in the dark background wheezed and struck eleven. "This is about the time you usually brew the punch," said the man with the thinker's head. His voice sounded soft and quavered a little. "Yes, this is the time," the other rejoined. His tone was harsh, as if again resounding with the strident shouts of command. "I should never have thought," the guest continued, "that it would be so sad without her." The host nodded and chewed on. "She made the New Year's punch for us forty-four times." "Yes," the old soldier put in, "ever since I have been living here in Berlin and you have been coming to see us."