“Why, how d’ye do, Baron Zeppstein!” he called out.
The Baron looked at him superciliously, then collapsed into cordiality. “Meester Grafton!” he exclaimed. “It is a pleasure—a joyful surprise. I did not know you at first.”
“Nor I you,” said Grafton. “I seem to be the only modern thing here—except the old gentleman who took that quiet jog around the lake a few minutes ago.”
“His Royal Highness,” corrected the Baron, pompously. “He takes a drive every afternoon.”
“A good show,” said Grafton. “But I think I’d tire of it. I’d rather look at it than be in it. I should say that he earned his salary.”
The Baron laughed vaguely. “You Americans do not understand our ways,” he said. “You are so practical—so busy. You have no time for tradition and beauty and ceremony.”
“No; we’re a common lot,” said Grafton. “We’d think this sort of thing was a joke if it happened outside of a circus. But it’s a very serious business, isn’t it?” His face was grave.
“It is; it is, indeed,” said Zeppstein, his shallow old face taking on a look of melancholy importance. “But we must do our public duty; we must accept the cares of high station. And His Royal Highness—ah, how he suffers! We others have our relaxations—we get away to our families. But His Royal Highness—this is his vacation. And, mein Gott, he yawns and curses all day long. Yes, it is trying to be near the great of earth, but not so trying as to be great.”
“He looks ill-tempered,” said Grafton, sympathetically.
“But think what he suffers. Imagine! Usually he must wear a heavy, tight uniform and a steel helmet; he says it has given him the headache almost every day for twenty-seven years. But the dignity of the nation must be maintained.”