Johannes sat there in extreme embarrassment. He felt that the costly cut-glass smelling-bottle concerned himself. It cried out, in the keen language of its hundreds of cut facets, "You smell of the third class!"
He sat like one rooted to the spot, and all unnerved, looking at the smelling-bottle as if he wished it was a dynamite bomb which would promptly send himself, the fine house, and all his beautiful illusions, flying into space.
Then Countess Dolores came to his rescue.
"Dear Lady Crimmetart," said she, in a coaxing voice, "this is a very interesting youth—really, very interesting. He is a young poet who sings his own compositions. Is it not so, Johannes? They are so charmingly melancholy—really, charmingly so! Indeed, you must hear them, dear friend. I am sure they will please you."
"Really?" said the deep voice; and the blue goggle-eyes in the frightfully big face glared at Johannes.
"Oh, yes, Lady Crimmetart," continued the countess; "but that is not all. Johannes is also a medium—a sensitive—who can see all kinds of elementals—sometimes even in broad daylight. Is it not so, Johannes?"
Johannes was too much distressed and confounded to do more than give a nod of stupefied acquiescence.
"Really?" said Lady Crimmetart, in a voice like that of a ship's commander in heavy weather. "Then he must come to my party next Saturday evening."
"Do you hear, Johannes? That is a great honor," said Countess Dolores. "Lady Crimmetart is one of the cleverest women in the world, and the elect of intellectual England attend her parties."
"Young man," said Lady Crimmetart, "I will let you talk with Ranji-Banji-Singh, of the University of Benares, the great Theosophist, and with Professor von Pennewitz, from Moscow."