It was Giulay, of all people, Maurus Giulay, who stood up and attacked the horn-player.
"Everybody," he said, "knows that Mr. Doblana is a good business man. In fact, there is no other musician of such money grubbing habits in the whole town of Vienna. He knows that tunes, little tunes, pay. There is but one excuse for Mr. Doblana's petty point of view: his nationality. He is a Czech, and as such devoid from all sorts of ideals. It is not his fault if he misunderstands the whole question. It is his nationality's!"
Doblana had become quite pale.
"What do you know of the question, you Magyar!" he shouted.
Instantly there was a terrific outburst of the whole company. Nobody would have suspected it a minute before. Nearly all the members of the Round Table turned against Doblana, who was supported only by two other Czechs, three or four Italians, and one German: old Hammer. As for the Herr Graf, when I looked for him to see how he was behaving with his partner, I found that he had disappeared.
One cannot well imagine how fierce the outburst was. My calm English brain could not understand at all this wild talk, these furious shouts. I was shocked, I must confess, and I felt a little silly. Evidently there was no more possibility of reaching a decision this evening. So with much talk I induced Doblana to leave with me.
As it was not very late, I suggested a stroll which would appease my agitated host.
The evening was one of those of which we never see an example in our foggy island, an exquisite spring evening, rapturous and passionately wonderful. You know the evil smell which fills most big towns just at that time of the year. Vienna is not so. There is a gust of perfume which gives spring its true significance.
As we were walking down first the Boulevard, or Ring, as it is called in Vienna, and then, after having crossed the river, the wide road which leads to the Prater, I imagined what happiness would be mine if a certain fair girl was moving by my side instead of her surly father. On the bridge there stood a lovely flower girl, delayed probably by some little mishap, with a basket full of red roses and white lilies of the valley. I would have bought some for Mitzi... Suppose I now offered a few to the horn-player...!
Was it not perfectly ridiculous to lose my sunny youth walking side by side with an old man, still smarting from what he considered an insult, and smarting all the more as there was some truth in what had been said of him?