in upon him, he felt a longing himself to retail confidences, and he tried to tell Doctor Ueberbein all about himself.
But the funny thing was that Doctor Ueberbein himself checked him, opposed any such intention most decidedly. "No, no, Klaus Heinrich," he said; "full stop there! No confidences, if you please! Not but that I know that you have all sorts of things to tell me.… I need only watch you for half a day to see that, but you quite misunderstand me if you think I'm likely to encourage you to weep round my neck. In the first place, sooner or later you'd repent it. But in the second, the pleasures of a confidential intimacy are not for the likes of you. You see, there's no harm in my chattering. What am I? An usher. Not a common or garden one, in my own opinion, but still no better than such. Just a categorical unit. But you? What are you? That's harder to say.… Let's say a conception, a kind of ideal. A frame. An emblematical existence, Klaus Heinrich, and at the same time a formal existence. But formality and intimacy—haven't you yet learnt that the two are mutually exclusive? Absolutely exclusive. You have no right to intimate confidences, and if you attempted them you yourself would discover that they did not suit you, would find them inadequate and insipid. I must remind you of your duty, Klaus Heinrich."
Klaus Heinrich laughed and saluted with his crop, and on they rode.
On another occasion Doctor Ueberbein said casually: "Popularity is a not very profound, but a grand and comprehensive kind of familiarity." And that was all he said on the subject.
Sometimes in summer, during the long intervals between the morning lessons, they would sit together in the empty pavilion, or stroll about the "Pheasants" playground, discussing various topics, and breaking off to drink lemonade
