They drank in silence. Dorn observed an unusual air about his friend. He thought of Mathilde's suspicions, and smiled. Yet there was something inexplicable about von Stinnes. There had been from the first.
"Inexplicable because he is ... nothing," Dorn thought. "A chevalier of excitements, a Don Quixote of disillusion...."
"You are thinking of me," the baron smiled over his wine-glass, "as I am thinking of you. Here's to our unimportant healths, Erik."
Dorn swallowed more wine. To be called Erik by his friend pleased him. He looked inquiringly at the humorous eyes of the man, and spoke:
"You are cut after my pattern."
The Baron nodded.
"Only I have had more opportunities to exercise the pattern," he replied. "For the pattern, dear friend, is scoundrelism. And I, God bless me ..." He paused and gestured as if in a hopelessness of words.
"There is quality as well as quantity in scoundrelism," Dorn suggested. He was thinking without emotion of Anna.
"I have decided to remain in Munich," von Stinnes spoke, "and that means that I will die here."
"The day's melodrama has gone to your head," Dorn laughed.