"I am."
"And then what?" asked Smith taking the newspaper from Kingsbury and opening it.
"What then? Why—why, some of us ought to give our country an example. I'm willing to do it—when I have time——"
"Here's your chance, then," urged Smith, studying the society column. "Here's all about the charity bazar at Semois-les-Bains this afternoon. The Countess sells dolls there. Our Ambassador will be on hand, and you can meet her easily enough. The rest," he added, politely, "will, of course, be easy."
Kingsbury lighted a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and flung one booted leg over the other.
"If I were not here in Belgium for a rest—" he began.
"You are—but not alone for bodily and mental repose. Think how it would rest your conscience to offset that marriage which has irritated you by marrying the Countess of Semois—by presenting to your surprised and admiring country a superb and titled wife for patriotic purposes."
"I don't know which she is," retorted Kingsbury, intensely annoyed. "If she's the tall girl with dark hair and lots colour I could manage to fall in love easily enough. I may add, Smith, that you have an extraordinary way of messing up the English language."
He arose, walking out toward the gate, where the smiling little postman came trotting up to meet him, fishing out a dozen letters and papers.
"Letters from home, Smith," he observed, strolling back to the arbour. "Here's one for you"—he laid it beside Smith's plate—"and here's one from my sister—I'll just glance at it if you'll excuse me." He opened it and read placidly for a few moments. Then, of a sudden a terrible change came into his face; he hastily clapped his monocle to his eye, glared at the written page, set his teeth, and crumpled it furiously in his hand.