“Yes, on our ride to the meet, or to the ‘Pheasantry.’”
“Oh, I forgot your preciseness, Prince, in the matter of appointments. Very well, on our ride. We go down here.”
They found themselves at the back of the Schloss. Carpeted steps led from a gallery hung with big pictures, down into the white-and-gold garden room, behind the glass door of which lay the terrace. Everything—the big crystal lustres, which hung from the centre of the high, white-festooned ceiling, the regularly arranged arm-chairs with gilt frames and fancy upholstering, the heavy white silk curtains, the elaborate clock and the vases and gilt lamps on the white marble chimneypiece in front of the tall looking-glass, the massive, lion-footed gilt candelabra which towered on either side of the entrance—everything reminded Klaus Heinrich of the Old Schloss, of the Representation Chamber, in which he had played his part from his youth up; only that the candles here were shams, with yellow electric bulbs instead of wicks, and that everything of the Spoelmanns' was new and smart in Schloss Delphinenort. A swan's-down footman was putting the last touch to the tea-table in a corner of the room; Klaus Heinrich noticed the electric kettle about which he had read in the Courier.
“Has Mr. Spoelmann been told?” asked the daughter of the house…. The butler bowed. “Then there's nothing,” she said quickly and half mockingly, “to prevent us from taking our places and beginning without him. Come, Countess! I advise you, Prince, to unbuckle your sword, unless there are reasons unknown to me for your not doing so….”
“Thanks,” said Klaus Heinrich, “no, there is no reason why I shouldn't.” And he was angry with himself for not being smart enough to think of a more adroit answer.
The footman took his sword, and carried it off. They took their seats at the tea-table with the help of the butler, who held the backs and pushed the chairs under them. Then he retired to the top of the steps, where he remained in an elegant attitude.
“I must tell you, Prince,” said Miss Spoelmann, pouring the water into the pot, “that my father won't drink any tea which I have not made with my own hands. He distrusts all tea which is handed round ready-made in cups. That is barred with us. You'll have to put up with it.”
“Oh, I like it much better like this,” said Klaus Heinrich, “it's much more comfortable and free-and-easy at a family tea like this….” He broke off, and wondered why as he spoke these words a side-glance of hatred lighted on him from the eyes of Countess Löwenjoul. “And your course of study?” he asked. “May I ask about it? It's mathematics, I know. Don't you find it too much? Isn't it terribly brain-racking?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “It's just splendid; it's like playing in the breezes, so to speak, or rather out of the breezes, in a dust-free atmosphere. It's as cool there as in the Adirondacks.”
“The what?”