I somehow got the impression that Ascher was not particularly pleased to see his nephew Albrecht. Ascher was not looking very well. I had not seen him for some time, and I noticed even at dinner that his face was pale and drawn. In the theatre he seemed worse and I thought that the sudden appearance of his nephew had annoyed him. The young man whispered something to his companion and left his seat. The orchestra was still thrashing its way through its tune and there seemed no immediate prospect of the curtain going up.
A few minutes later there was a tap at the door of our box and Von Richter came in. Mrs. Ascher held out her hand to him. He bent over it and kissed it with very pretty courtesy. He shook hands with Ascher who introduced him to me.
“Captain von Richter—Sir James Digby.”
Von Richter bowed profoundly. I nodded.
“Have you been long in London?” said Ascher. “You did not let me know that you were here.”
“I arrived here this afternoon,” said Von Richter, “only this afternoon, at five o’clock.”
He spoke English remarkably well, with no more than a trace of foreign accent.
“I’ve been in Ireland,” he said, “for six weeks.”
“Indeed!” said Ascher. “In Ireland?”
He was looking at his nephew without any expression of surprise, apparently without any suggestion of inquiry; but I could not help noticing that his fingers were fidgeting with the ribbon of his pince-nez. Ascher, as a rule, does not fidget. He has his nerves well under control.