"I should like to tell you something."
"Tell me, then, but without any preface. I detest prefaces; I never read them; in fact, a book is usually spoiled for me if I find it has a preface. What is a preface written for? Either to explain the book that follows it, or to excuse it. And why read a book that needs explanation or excuses? I told Franz Weyser, the famous orator, in the Reichsrath the other day, that----"
"Father," Harry began again, in a tone of entreaty, aware that he should have some difficulty in obtaining a hearing for his confession.
"What an infernally sentimental air you have! Aha! I begin to see. You have evidently fallen in love with Zdena. It is not to be wondered at; she's a charming creature--pretty as a picture--looks amazingly like Charlotte Buff, of Goethe memory; all that is needed is to have her hair dressed high and powdered. What can I say? In your place I should have been no wiser. Moreover, if you choose to marry poverty for love, 'tis your own affair. You must remember that Franz will undoubtedly stop your allowance. You cannot expect much from Paul; and as for myself, I can do nothing for you except give you my blessing. You know how matters stand with me; and I must think of your sister, who never can marry without a dowry. I cannot entirely deprive myself of means: a politician must preserve his independence, for, as I lately said to Fritz Böhm, in the Reichsrath----"
In vain had Harry tried to edge in a word. With a bitter smile he recalled a passage in a Vienna humorous paper which, under the heading of "A disaster prevented," set forth the peril from drowning from which the entire government had been saved by the presence of mind of the president of the Reichsrath, Herr Doctor Smolka, who had contrived just in the nick of time to put a stop to a torrent of words from Baron Karl Leskjewitsch.
Suddenly the Baron stumbled over a stone, which fortunately caused him to pause.
"It has nothing to do with Zdena!" Harry exclaimed, seizing his opportunity.
"Not? Then----"
"I have become betrothed," Harry almost shouted, for fear of not making his father hear.
"And what do you want of me?"