Amidst derisive laughter he drained his glass, and then turned quickly, his attention having been arrested by a slight touch upon the shoulder. Unobserved in the general confusion, a tall, slightly built man, wearing the uniform of an officer in the Red Dragoons, had entered the mess-room and, leaning on his sword-hilt in an attitude of weary impatience, had taken up his place behind the last speaker. He now held out his hand.
"Congratulate you, Arnim," he said. "I heard the racket outside as I was passing, and came in for enlightenment as to the cause. Seleneck has just told me. Permit me to drink your health." He had taken the glass which a neighbour had proffered him and raised it slightly. "May you continue as you have begun!" he added.
"Many thanks," was the brief answer.
There was a moment's silence. The new-comer sipped at his share of the German champagne and then put down the glass with a faint contracting of the features which suggested a smothered grimace.
"You must let me order up a bottle of Cliquot," he said. "A great occasion should be worthily celebrated."
Arnim shook his head.
"Again—many thanks. I have had enough, and it is of no use cultivating expensive tastes. But you perhaps...?"
"If you have no objection." The dragoon beckoned an orderly, and, having given his instructions, seated himself at the table and drew out a cigarette-case.
"This means Berlin for you," he said. "When do your orders date from?"
"From next summer. I shall still have some months with the regiment."