She looked at the profile of his face in the moonlight; at that moment the deeply drawn lines seemed to be smoothed out. It was the face of a young man.

She asked impulsively: ‘How old are you, Albrecht?’

He turned to her with a slight smile. ‘On my last birthday I was thirty-six.’

She said in surprise: ‘Then – you’re younger than I am!’

‘Do years count? You are a young woman; and I, as you see, am an old man.’

‘Poor Albrecht.’

‘No. I am very lucky. I have everything I want – youth is something I do not want.’

‘But what do you want? Only pleasure?’

He paused; quite a long pause. Looking at him, she saw his gaze fixed outward on the river and the distant star-rimmed hills.

‘I want to be sure,’ he said at last, ‘that there is nothing I want.’