“To—er—shplid?” said the Baron, with a disappointed consciousness of having been put at a loss in his English by the very first man who had spoken to him.
“I beg your pardon,—I am afraid I was unintelligibly idiomatic. To divide, I should say, you consuming one-half, I the other. Am I clear, sir?”
For a moment the Baron was a little taken aback, and then recollecting that the dining habits of the English were still new to him, he concluded that the suggestion was probably a customary act of courtesy. He had already come to the conclusion that the gentleman must be a person of rank, and he replied affably, “Yah—zat is, vid pleasure. Zanks, very.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said the stranger—“and half the bottle,” he added, smiling.
The Baron, whose perception of humour had been abnormally increased by this time, laughed hilariously at the infection of his new acquaintance’s smile.
“Goot, goot!” he cried. “Ach, yah, zo.”
“Am I right, sir, in supposing that, despite the perfection of your English accent, I cannot be fortunate enough to claim you as a countryman?” asked the stranger.
The Baron’s resolutions of reticence had vanished altogether before such unexpected and (he could not [pg 69] but think) un-English friendliness. He unburdened his heart with a rush.
“You have ze right. I am Deutsch. I have gom to England zis day for to lairn and to amuse myself. But mein, vat you call?—introdogtions zey are not inside, zat is zey are from off. Not von, all, every single gone to ze gontry or to abroad. I am alone, I eat my dinner in zolitude, I am pleased to meet you, sare.”
A cork popped and the champagne frothed into the stranger’s glass. Raising it to his lips, he said, “Prosit!”