“So you are a socialist?” said the Englishman, passing over Johann's declamatory confidences.
“Yes, Herr. All men are brothers.”
“Go to!” laughed the Englishman, “you aren't even a second cousin to me. But stay, what place is this we are passing?” indicating with his cane a red-brick mansion which was fronted by broad English lawns and protected from intrusion by a high iron fence.
“That is the British legation, Herr.”
The Englishman stopped and stared, unconscious of the close scrutiny of the guide. His eyes traveled up the wide flags leading to the veranda, and he drew a picture of a square-shouldered old man tramping backward and forward, the wind tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his back, his chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog. Rapidly another picture came. It was an English scene. And the echo of a voice fell on his ears. “My way and the freedom of the house and the key to the purse; your way and a closed door while I live. You can go, but you can not come back. You have decided? Yes? Then good morning.” Thirteen years, thirteen years! He had sacrificed the freedom of the house and the key to the purse, the kind eyes and the warm pressure of that old hand. And for what? Starvation in the deserts, plenty of scars and little of thanks, ingratitude and forgetfulness.
And now the kind eyes were closed and the warm hand cold. O, to recall the vanished face, the silent voice, the misspent years, the April days and their illusions! The Englishman took the monocle from his eye and looked at it, wondering what had caused the sudden blur.
“There was a fine old man there in the bygone days,” said Johann.
“And who was he?”
“Lord Fitzgerald, the British minister. He and Leopold were close friends.” Johann's investigating gaze went unrewarded. The Englishman's face had resumed its expression of mild curiosity.
“Ah; a compatriot of mine,” he said. Inwardly he mused: “This guide is watching me; let him catch me if he can. His duchess? I know far too much of her!”