Old Nick, in a black frock-coat, advanced ceremoniously towards them; he said very little, however, and seemed generally rather ill at ease.
"Rather a change this," thought Warden Prois. He was more accustomed to finding Old Nick on such occasions in dressing-gown and slippers, with his old rocking-chair drawn up, and his feet on the table. Then, when he heard his visitors arrive, he would send a gruff hail to the kitchen: "Marthe, you old slow-coach, hurry up with that hot water, or I'll...." But to-day he was as polished and precise as an old marquis.
Prois glanced over towards Nachmann, and Thor Smith in despair picked up an ancient album that he had seen at least a hundred times before; the only pictures in it were portraits of the former parson, and of Pepita, a dancer, who had adorned the stage some forty years earlier, when Old Nick was young.
Then Mrs. Rantzau came in. She wore a black velvet dress, with a little red silk handkerchief coquettishly stuck in the breast.
Old Nick introduced them. She was certainly handsome, as she greeted each of the guests with a kindly word and a smile.
Tea was served, and she handed a cup to Smith and one to Prois. Nachmann had retired to the farthest corner of the sofa, as if on his guard.
She held out a cup towards him. "Mr. Nachmann, a cup of tea now?"
"Excuse me, I can drink most things made with water, including soda, potash and Apollinaris, but tea—no. It affects my nerves. Mr. Prois, now, is a confirmed tea-drinker; he'll have two cups at least, I'm sure."
Prois gave a furious glance at Nachmann, and struggled desperately with some sort of cake with currants in, and these he managed to spit out on the sly, hiding them in his waistcoat pocket.
At last the toddy and the cards appeared. Mrs. Rantzau sat close at hand, working at her embroidery, a large piece of canvas with a design representing Diana in the act of throwing a big spear at a retreating lion.