CHAPTER XXII.
UT PUTO, VESTIS FIO.
The next morning all Artenberg had the air of being rather ashamed of itself. Styrian traditions had been set at naught. Princess Heinrich considered that the limits of becoming mirth had been overstepped; the lines of her mouth had their most downward set. Nothing was said because the King had led the dance, but disgrace was in the atmosphere. We had all fallen from heaven—one may mean many things by heaven—and landed with more or less severity, according to the resources of padding with which Nature furnished us. To Varvilliers' case, indeed, the metaphor is inadequate; he had a parachute, sailed to earth gaily with never a bruise, and was ready to mount again had any of us offered to bear him company. His invitation, given with a heartiness that mocked his bidden companions, found no acceptance. We were all for our own planet in the morning. It was abundantly clear that revels must be the exception at Artenberg. Victoria was earnestly of this opinion. In the first place, the physical condition of William Adolphus was deplorable; he leered rueful roguishness out of bilious eyes, and Victoria could not endure the sight of him; secondly, she was sure that I had said something—what she did not know, but something—to Elsa; for Elsa had been found crying over her coffee in bed in the morning.
"And every word you say to her now is of such supreme importance," Victoria observed, standing over my writing-table.
I took my cigarette out of my mouth and answered perversely enough, but with an eye to truth all the same.
"Nothing that I say to her now is of the very least importance, Victoria."
"What do you mean?" she cried.
"Much what you do," I rejoined, and fell to smoking again.
Victoria began to walk about the room. I endured patiently. My eyes were fixed on Waldenweiter. I wondered idly whether the scene of despair had been enacted yet.
"It's not the smallest good making ourselves unhappy about it," Victoria announced, just as she was on the turn at the other end of the room.