He came forward: “Ah! Mon cher! So you return; I put off my departure, then. Vienna must wait for me—that poor Vienna!”
But noticing the extreme feebleness of Mr. Treffry's advance, he exclaimed with genuine concern:
“What is it? You're ill? My God!” After disappearing for five minutes, he came back with a whitish liquid in a glass.
“There!” he said, “good for the gout—for a cough—for everything!”
Mr. Treffry sniffed, drained the glass, and sucked his moustache.
“Ah!” he said. “No doubt! But it's uncommonly like gin, Paul.” Then turning to Christian, he said: “Shake hands, you two!”
Christian looked from one to the other, and at last held out her hand to Herr Paul, who brushed it with his moustache, gazing after her as she left the room with a queer expression.
“My dear!” he began, “you support her in this execrable matter? You forget my position, you make me ridiculous. I have been obliged to go to bed in my own house, absolutely to go to bed, because I was in danger of becoming funny.”
“Look here, Paul!” Mr. Treffry said gruffly, “if any one's to bully Chris, it's I.”
“In that case,” returned Herr Paul sarcastically, “I will go to Vienna.”