“And so,” said von Steyregg, upon the day that saw the return of the precious pair to Paris, “because of Prince Cocky-Locky’s béguin for Madame Henny-Penny, a plot of the first order is fudged, dished, and done for. Devil take the woman!”
Köhler returned, straightening a brand-new paper collar with a conquering air:
“She is a chic type, so no doubt he would be agreeable. Which of us is to tell Old Fireworks of the fiasco? That will have to be done!”
Von Steyregg retorted irritably:
“Tell—tell! Why the deuce are you so set on telling? Will he stump up a single shiner, once he knows of the mess?”
Köhler made a neat circle with his left thumb and forefinger, and winked through it. Both men, it will be perceived, had left their graceful phrases and courtly manners behind in Widinitz, with Köhler’s original paper collar and his partner’s left coat-tail. To the mute admission of the wink, von Steyregg returned:
“Very well, then! We have made a bit out of this—at least, you have——”
Köhler interpolated:
“Go it!”
“I am going to go it,” said von Steyregg blandly. “I have not seen my native Hungary for a long time, and the heart of the true Magyar, even amidst the most beauteous scenes of foreign countries, ceaselessly yearns for home. Impart the news of the disaster to Monseigneur if you feel disposed to be kicked!—or leave the too-painful duty to his puppy of a son!”