"My dear Mrs. Monmouth, my felicitations!"
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth took the gloved hand languidly and turned away.
"Don't felicitate me on anything, Doctor!"
"But the Malta!" protested the Doctor. "That was a superb stroke for the Fatherland! It is not often I am lavish of praise."
"You are certainly not a woman's man!" retorted Mrs. Beecher Monmouth, flashing a look at him.
"Your beauty is apparent to me, as it would be to a much younger man, I can assure you of that, my dear gnädige Frau," said Voules.
"I am not talking of beauty—I am talking of moods," replied she. "You observe nothing of my disturbance!"
Doctor Voules, who did not believe in moods, who never permitted such weakness in his subordinates, pressed his lips tightly together.
"You will be good enough, gnädige Frau," he commanded, "to be a little more precise and explicit. Something has occurred, no doubt, to ruffle your temper." He went to a chair at the hearth, seated himself, asked permission to smoke, and lit one of his big, black cigars.
Mrs. Beecher Monmouth looked at him squarely for a moment.