In the days that immediately followed, these three were together a great deal. Presently Stanley drawlingly, announced that he would have to be packing up; his bank account was getting low, he declared, and he would be forced once more to bask in the sunshine of his wife's presence.
The other two still stayed on. Berlin was just beginning to be amusing. People were beginning to return from Marienbad, from Schwalbach, from Heringsdorf. All the theatres were once more open. Summer was saying goodbye.
One day Wooton asked: "Of course you've seen Potsdam?"
Lancaster shook his head.
"Well, then it's high time you did. Leaves beginning to fall and all that sort of thing. The last chance. It's really very worth while. Castles till you can't rest. Babelsberg, Sans-souci, and the New Palace. To say nothing of a bit of Potsdam, near the Barberini Palace, that's almost as good as Venice."
They arranged to make the excursion the first sunny day, and had only to wait until the sun rose again. They chose to travel by boat. It was a splendid journey, in the bright sun-light, past the woods and rushes and villas that skirt the little series of inland lakes between Spandau and Potsdam. They left the steamer at the landing-stage for Babelsberg and went leisurely through the grounds and the simple, comfortable, old place. By the time a boatman had rowed them over to Potsdam, it was luncheon time.
They left the boat riding in the Venice-like waterway, and stepped directly into the garden of the vine-covered, shady café that skirted the water for quite a distance. Waiters were moving about and at tables sat family parties, eating and drinking cheerily and honestly. It was one of the things that enchanted Lancaster, this part of continental life, this open-air freedom of taking one's glass of beer, this cheerful way of supping out-doors en famille, of devoting to restaurant-garden uses the most expensive corner-lots, of making the passing show of strollers one of the sights that you paid for with your glass.
They chose a table that directly overlooked the water-front. Behind them lay the yellow shabbiness of the Barberini palace, that relic of a king's devotion to a dancer. Below them gleamed the water. It was by no means an unpicturesque spot.
"By the way," said Wooton, casually, as they were discussing the entree, "I met a friend of your's last summer, a Miss Ware."
"Oh." There was not much interest in Lancaster's tone, but Wooton helped himself to the Rauenthaler and went on: