XIX A DIPLOMATIST IN THE MAKING

The Queen-mother lingered on in Munich, and society with her. Excellenz Nachmeister and the diplomatic corps entertained constantly, and if the rest of the fashionable world took little initiative, it was always ready to lend the light of its countenance. Ordham, with the most enthusiastic intentions, saw little of Countess Tann, but at least he broke no engagements with her; and this, to those that knew him, would have appeared more significant than had he sought her daily. That pleasure awaited the empty summer months, and meanwhile, conformably with his half-admitted creed, he missed nothing that promised enjoyment. Nevertheless, true to his promise to Margarethe Styr, he took his daily lesson with Fr?ulein Lutz; and this recalls a story which became current in Munich at the time and entertained his friends not a little. Lutz related it with a mixture of tartness and triumph to Styr, who told it to Nachmeister, who——

His Grenadier, as he called her, arrived at the Legation every morning at five minutes before ten. He received her in an upper sitting room, and had made more progress in four weeks than during the six preceding months of his sojourn in Munich. As a rule he appeared at the rendezvous not more than five or six minutes later than Lutz, but one morning he arose with the greatest reluctance. He had taken a party of English friends to the monastic cellar of the Hofbr?u the night before, and sat up until late listening to the students singing, and drinking beer in an atmosphere as thick as a London fog. He wanted to lie in bed until noon, but dared not run the risk of the loss of his Lutz. He arose when called, but entered the frigid presence quite twelve minutes late. Being greeted with a withering outburst, he was suddenly inspired to torment this iron-clad female, for whom he appeared to have no more magnetism than had he been a wooden dummy into which she was employed to drill holes and instil so much German per day. He sank into the deepest chair in the room, and drawled:

“I am so sorry—”

“That is the one thing you can say fluently in German! At least one thousand times have I heard you say it.”

“Oh—but I am—really. Not to be late, but to be obliged to come at all. I was so deliciously comfortable.”

“Deliciously—in bed—at this hour! What an admission for a man to make!”

“But to you I am only a boy,” murmured Ordham.

“Ach ja! But you would like to be thought a man. Nicht? When you have succeeded in raising a mustache you will want to be thought young again. I have taught hundreds of your sex, and not one has more sense than the other. But not one!”

“Is that the reason you have never married?”

Her mottled complexion turned a uniform purple, and she investigated his innocent orbs with her bright little black eyes. Then she demanded haughtily: “What is that to you? Am I here to answer personal questions?”

“But this is the morning for conversation, Fr?ulein. We had those hideous verbs yesterday. And I am so tired! That was so easy, so natural to say, for I know that at least one Herr Professor carries an arrow in his heart.”

The personage in question had eluded Fr?ulein Lutz with such conspicuous adroitness some years before that the affair had become historical. She felt a natural gratification that the story had altered its front with the lapse of time, but replied severely: “Enough! We will ask and answer questions of a less personal nature. Also! How many neckties do you possess? I have now taught you for four weeks and I have seen a new one every day.”

“And she calls that an impersonal question! But I am quite ready to answer, liebes Fr?ulein, for my man informed me yesterday. I possess exactly two hundred and eighty-four.”

“Two hundred and eighty-four neckties!” shrieked Fr?ulein Lutz. “It is impossible! But impossible!”

“Only until this afternoon. Then I shall possess two hundred and eighty-six. And next week I expect a box from London—”

“But it is incredible. Why, I have taught counts, barons, princes for thirty years, and I do not believe that one of them possessed more than ten or twelve neckties at a time.”

“O—h—h—h—”

“Don’t dare to turn up your English nose at counts and princes—princes of the blood, let me explain. Ach Gott! Act Gott!” She looked him over. “And socks, handkerchiefs—all match! Do you assert that you have two hundred and eighty-four handkerchiefs, shirts, pairs of socks? Answer in idiomatic German or I shall make you write it.”

She did make him write it. Once more he lay back exhausted. Taking out a handkerchief, he sniffed at it, then waved it gently.

“And scent!” She almost choked. “I have noticed it before, but was too polite to make remarks. To-day I relieve my mind. Scent is obnoxious, demoralizing, intended only for idle fine ladies and those others whom we never mention. Why do you use scent? Mind your idiom.”

He sank into a posture almost reclining; he half closed his eyes and half opened his mouth. He looked very naughty indeed. “Why?” he murmured dreamily. “Because I find in perfumes one of the exquisite sensations of life. I should like to lie in bed all day while some one sprinkled the crude air with distilled odours—and dream—ah!”

“I’ve a mind to box your ears!” she cried furiously and with a very red face. “And your German is as execrable as your sentiments.”

“Dictate it to me in pure German and I will learn it.”

“I would not pollute my lips. Sit up and say after me: ‘I am a silly young English puppy, who should be striding through the Englischergarten reciting German verbs aloud when I am dawdling in bed like a scented harlot—’?”

“Oh! oh! I shall not. How shocking of you! Mein liebes Fr?ulein!” And he stared at her so incredulously that she felt uncomfortable.

“Well, you deserve to have harsh things said to you,” she growled, “and you would demoralize the vocabulary of a saint. Also! I shall converse with you no more. Conjugate the verb ‘arbeiten,’ and then read aloud three pages of Wallenstein. If you mispronounce a word, it shall be four, and there will be two more verbs. Sit up!”

He meekly obeyed her; and when she had stalked out he hastened to the tennis court and played until luncheon.

That evening Fr?ulein Lutz, sitting alone in her musty little flat, her spectacles astride her nose, muttering aloud over the notes she had graciously been permitted to cull from the royal archives, became the astounded recipient of an immense bunch of violets. They were royal purple in colour and wet with what might have been the dew of the Riviera, whence they came. But they were quite scentless. If she suspected the donor she made no sign, and on the following morning was more than commonly snappish. But the wide streamers of purple satin ribbon which held the violets together decorated her best bonnet till the last of her days.