At the word "betrothed" Harry shrinks involuntarily. Treurenberg looks up.
"Betrothed!" he exclaims. "And to whom?"
"Guess," says the lieutenant, who is an old acquaintance of Treurenberg's.
"It is not hard to guess. To your charming little cousin Zdena."
The lieutenant puckers his lips as if about to whistle, and says, "Not exactly. Guess again."
Meanwhile, Harry stands like a man in the pillory who is waiting for a shower of stones, and says not a word.
"Then--then--" Treurenberg looks from the lieutenant to his friend, "I have no idea," he murmurs.
"To the Baroness Paula Harfink," says the lieutenant, his face devoid of all expression.
There is a pause. Treurenberg's eyes try in vain to meet those of his friend.
From without come the clatter of spurs and the drone of a hand-organ grinding out some popular air.