Count Herbert von Hatzfeld was the typical Teuton, tall and blond, with soldierly bearing. His mustache had the uptwist dear to the Kaiser. He had good teeth, polished ways, and an engaging smile. Like most Germans, his speech was stiff and slow, and he sat bolt upright, as if he had accidentally swallowed a poker, which made it impossible for him to unbend.
Grace's suggestion did not seem to appeal to him, for, with a hasty glance at Mrs. Phelps, who appeared engrossed in something Professor Hanson was saying, he replied:
"Ach—that is nothing. I like dancing with you in the heat better than not dancing at all."
Grace purposely ignored the compliment. She had no desire to make Mrs. Phelps jealous; so, hastening to draw the widow into the conversation, she leaned over to her.
"What do you think about it, Mrs. Phelps? I just told the count that I thought it too hot to dance to-night. What's your opinion?"
"Oh, dear, no," laughed the widow, fanning herself. "Let's enjoy ourselves as long as we can. This weather's nothing to what we shall get in the interior of India. I wouldn't miss the dance for anything."
"Mrs. Stuart, may I trouble you for some more tea?" asked Professor Hanson, with his customary exaggerated politeness.
"You, professor, may have anything," replied Mrs. Stuart, with a smile meant to be fascinating. Archly she added: "You know, I call you my walking encyclopedia. Just think what you've taught me on this voyage—all about ocean currents, the stars, wireless telegraphy. You are a wonderful man."
The professor bowed and preened himself as he sugared his tea.
"You flatter me, my dear madam. Really, you flatter me. It has been an honor and delight to talk with so charming and intelligent a woman."