Published in the early 1940s; this is more of a novella than a novel (70 small pages). The protagonist is a man of enough money to not work who is idly passing his time in a pension in Switzerland. He has nothing to do but watch the people around him, think, with a determination to find pleasure in melancholy, about the last woman he loved, and wonder whether he ought to take up with some other woman. It seems that he has spent years going from one woman to another, in fairly conscious pursuit of particular emotions and experiences. But he feels like he is changing; this story seems to be about his gaining a modicum of emotional maturity. Not a bad story, though hardly immortal.