"Everything has been attended to," Estermen replied.
Herr Freudenberg was thoughtful for several moments. Then with a wave of his hand he dismissed Estermen.
"You, too, can go, Fritz," he said to his secretary. "You have had a long night's work."
"You yourself, Excellency, should sleep for a while," his secretary advised.
Herr Freudenberg shook his head.
"Sleep," he declared, "is a waste of time. I need no sleep. As you go, you can tell my servant to prepare a warm bath. I will rest then for an hour and walk in the Champs Elysées."
The secretary withdrew and Herr Freudenberg was alone. He picked up a crumpled rose that lay upon the table and twirled it for a moment or two in his fingers. The action seemed to be wholly unconscious. His eyes were set in a fixed stare, his thoughts were busy weaving out his plans for the day. It was not until he was summoned to his bath that he rose and glanced at the withered flower. Then he smiled.
"Poor little Marguerite!" he murmured. "What a pity!"
He touched the rose with his lips, abandoned his first intention, which seemed to have been to throw it into the fireplace, and put it back carefully upon the table, side by side with an odd white glove.
"Queer little record of the froth of life," he said softly to himself.
"One soiled evening glove, a faded rose, a woman's tears,—they pass.
What can one do—we poor others who have to drive the wheels of life?"