“It is very dreadful,” she said at dinner to her husband.
“My dear, let us be thankful that it is not worse,—it might have been,” said the cheerful philosopher.
“Worse!” interrogated the baroness.
“He might have married her.”
This appalling suggestion silenced the baroness.
Some days later, a letter came from Rudolph from Cape Juan. Already there was a breath of cynicism in it, startling to those who had known him in his not far distant period of girlish and fastidious shrinking. The baron read it attentively, and then said:
“It seems to me, my dear, your Arcadian nephew is going to the devil as fast as brandy and Photini will help him.”
And that was all he said, adding that probably in a year, at the most, Rudolph would reappear in their midst, hardened, cynical, and worldly wise.
The outrage inflicted on Athens in the respected person of her chief citizen still lifted the voice of uproarious censure, and the Turkish Embassy had to interfere on behalf of Daoud Bey, who made good his escape.