“Another of Margery’s dreams shattered!”
Ned laughed and rang for more wine.
As they came down the steps the next morning Harold said to Ned:
“My boy, there are worse crimes than murdering a woman.”
“Oh, let’s get a cocktail,” croaked Ned.
IV
VENUS OR VALKYR?
Paul Godard found the ride between Nuremberg and Baireuth discomforting. The hot July breezes that blew into the first-class coupé of the train were almost breath-arresting; and Paul had left Stuttgart that morning in a savage mood. The slowness of the railway service irritated him, the faces of his travelling companions irritated him, and he had shocked an Englishman by remarking early in the afternoon:
“If the old engine doesn’t run any faster than this we had better get out and walk, or—push.”
The other simply peered at the speaker and then resumed Wolzogen’s book on Leading-Motives.
Three Roumanian ladies laughed in oily Eastern accents. They understood English, and the sight of a human being, a strong young man, in a passion about such a little matter as European railroad punctuality struck them as ridiculous. So they laughed again and Paul finally joined in, for he was an American.