"Safer not; he might fall in love with the wrong woman." And the chamois-hunter looked with a certain intentness into his guest's deep eyes.
She flushed under the gaze, and answered at random, "I doubt it he could fall in love. A man who would let his Chancellor choose! He can have no heart at all."
"He has perhaps found other things more important in life than women."
"Chamois, for instance. You would sympathize there."
"Chamois give good sport. They are hard to find; hard to hit when you 55 have found them."
"So are the best types of women. Those who, like the chamois (and the plant I spoke of), live only in high places. Oh, for the sake of my sex, I hope that one day your Emperor will be forced to change his mind—that a woman will make him change it!"
"Perhaps a woman has—already."
Sylvia grew pale. Was she too late? Or was this a hidden compliment which the chamois-hunter did not guess she had the clue to understand? She could not answer. The silence grew electrical, and he broke it with some slight confusion. "It is a pity the Kaiser cannot hear you. He might be converted to your more English views."
"Or he might clap me into prison for lèse-majesté."
"He would not do that, gna' Fräulein—if he's anything like me."