“Will it not explode, sir?” and Karl still looked at the flask in doubt.
“Oh no—it will do its work with extraordinary silence and no less extraordinary rapidity. Do not be afraid!”
Slowly and with evident uneasiness Karl put the terrifying composition into his pocket, deeply impressed by the idea that he had about him stuff, which, if used in sufficient quantity, could “pulverise a mountain.” It was awful! worse than dynamite, he considered, his thoughts flying off wantonly to the woes of Irishmen and Russians. El-Râmi seemed not to notice his embarrassment and went on talking quietly, asking various questions concerning Kremlin’s funeral, and giving advice as to the final arrangements which were necessary, till presently he inquired of Karl what he proposed doing with himself in the future.
“Oh I shall look out for another situation,”—he said—“I shall not go back to Germany. I like to think of the ‘Fatherland,’ and I can sing the ‘Wacht am Rhein’ with as much lung as anybody, but I wouldn’t care to live there. I think I shall try for a place where there’s a lady to serve; you know, sir, gentlemen’s ways are apt to be monotonous. Whether they are clever or foolish they always stick to it, whatever it is. A gentleman that races is always racing, and always talking and thinking about racing,—a gentleman that drinks is always on the drink,—a gentleman that coaches is always coaching, and so on; now a lady does vary! One day she’s all for flowers, another for pictures, another for china,—sometimes she’s mad about music, sometimes about dresses,—or else she takes a fit for study, and gets heaps of books from the libraries. Now for a man-servant all that is very agreeable and lively.”
Féraz laughed at this novel view of domestic service, and Karl, growing a little more cheerful, went on with his explanation—
“You see, supposing I get into a lady’s service, I shall have so much more to distract me. One afternoon I shall be waiting outside a picture-gallery with her shawls and wraps; another day I shall be running backwards and forwards to a library,—and then there’s always the pleasure of never quite knowing what she will do next. And it’s excitement I want just now—it really is!”
The corners of his good-humoured mouth drooped again despondently, and his thoughts reverted with unpleasant suddenness to the “pulverising” liquid in his pocket. What a terrible thing it was to get acquainted with scientists!
El-Râmi listened to his observations patiently.
“Well, Karl,” he said at last—“I think I can promise you a situation such as you would like. There is a very famous and lovely lady in London, known to the reading-world as Irene Vassilius—she writes original books; is sweetly capricious, yet nobly kind-hearted. I will write to her about you, and I have no doubt she will give you a trial.”
Karl brightened up immensely at this prospect.