“Yes, but the Herr Förster has the right to fish and so have his guests. There are, however, conditions. The fish you take are not yours. You must buy as many of them as you want to keep, afterward. And they must be brought home alive—or as nearly alive as is consistent with being shut up in a close, round, green tin box, full of water which becomes tepid as it is carried along by a peasant boy in the heat. They usually die of suffocation. But to the German mind that is all right. It is only not right when one kills them instantly and lays them in a cool creel, on fresh wet ferns and moss.”
“Nevertheless, I think we will dispense with the boy and the green box, in favor of the ferns and moss, assisted by a five franc piece or two.”
“It isn’t francs any more; you’re not in France. It’s marks here, you know.”
“Well, I have the same faith in the corrupting power of marks as of francs, or lire, or shillings, or dollars.”
“And I think you will find your confidence justified,” said Mrs Dene, smiling.
“Mamma trying to be cynical!” said Ruth, teasingly. “Isn’t she funny, Rex!”
A thoughtful look stole over her mother’s face. “I can be terrible, too, sometimes—” she said in her little, clear, high soprano voice; and she gazed musingly at the edge of a letter, which just appeared above the table, and then sank out of sight in her lap.
“A letter from papa! It came with the stage! What does he say?”
“He says—several things; for one, he is coming back tomorrow instead of the next day.”
“Delightful! But there is more?”