“The pity of it is, sir, that he hasn’t got on yours.”
“And when he does,” said Armand kindly, “will be time enough for the chain-mail.”
Bernheim took the vest and deliberately laid it on the blotter.
“For the sake of those who love you, my lord,” he said—“and”—turning to a picture of the Princess, which hung on the opposite wall, and saluting—“for her whom we all serve.”
The Archduke looked at the picture in silence for a moment.
“Send the vest to the Epsau,” he said; “I will wear it—sometimes.”
And Bernheim knew he had to be satisfied with the sometimes—though as even that was more than he had dared to hope for, he was well content.
The Archduke and the American Ambassador met by appointment at the outer gate of the City, and as the former had been delayed, they rode at speed to the Summer Palace. It was the first time they had been together, informally, since the King’s death, but beyond the usual friendly greeting and an occasional word en route there was no conversation. There was much that Armand wished to discuss with his friend, but this was not the place for it—it needed a quiet room and the other aids to serious consultation.
“I want a word with you, Dick, before you go back to town,” he remarked, as they dismounted.
And Courtney nodded comprehendingly.