Klaus Heinrich reddened.
“I know well,” he said quietly, looking down at his reins, “that I don't act as a cordial, Miss Spoelmann, or, at any rate, only at a distance…. That, too, is inseparable from my kind of existence, as I said. But I am not conscious of having shown myself hard and stern to the Countess.”
“Probably not in words,” she replied, “but you did not allow her to let herself go, you did not do her the kindness of letting her tongue run a little, that's why she's vexed with you—and I know quite well what you did, how you embarrassed the poor thing and gave her a cold douche—quite well,” she repeated, and turned her head away.
Klaus Heinrich did not answer. He kept his left hand planted on his hip, and his eyes were tired. Then he said:
“You know quite well? So I act like a cold douche on you too, Miss Spoelmann, do I?”
“I warn you,” she answered at once in her broken voice, and wagging her head from side to side, “on no account to overrate the effect you have upon me, Prince.” And she suddenly set Fatma off at a gallop and flew at such a pace over the fields towards the dark mass of the distant pine-woods that neither the Countess nor Klaus Heinrich could keep up with her. Not till she reached the edge of the wood through which the high-road ran did she halt and turn her horse to look mockingly at her followers.
Countess Löwenjoul on her cream was the first to come up with the runaway. Then came Florian, foaming and much exhausted by his unusual exertion. They all laughed and their breath came fast as they entered the echoing wood. The Countess had awakened and chatted merrily, making lively, graceful gestures and showing her white teeth. She poked fun at Percival, whose temper had again been excited by the gallop, and who was careering wildly among the trunks in front of the horses.
“Royal Highness,” she said, “you ought to see him jump and turn somersaults. He can take a ditch six yards broad, and does it so lightly and gracefully, you'd be delighted. But only of his own accord, mind you, of his free will, for I believe he'd rather let himself be whipped to death than submit to any training or teaching of tricks. He is, one might say, his own trainer by nature, and though sometimes unruly he is never rough. He is a gentleman, an aristocrat, and full of character. He's as proud as you like, and though he seems mad he's quite able to control himself. Nobody has ever heard him cry for pain when punished and hurt. He only eats, too, when he is hungry, and at other times won't look at the most tempting dainties. In the morning he has cream … he must be fed. He wears himself out, he's quite thin under his glossy coat, you can feel all his ribs. For I'm afraid he'll never grow to be old, but will fall an early victim to consumption. The street curs persecute him, they go for him in every street, but he jumps clear of them, and if they succeed in joining issue with him, he distributes a few bites with his splendid teeth which the rabble don't forget in a hurry. One must love such a compound of chivalry and virtue.”
Imma agreed, in words which were the most serious and grave which Klaus Heinrich had ever heard from her mouth.
“Yes,” she said, “you're a good friend to me, Percy, I shall always love you. A veterinary surgeon said you were half mad and advised us to have you put away, as you were impossible and a constant danger to us. But they shan't take my Percy from me. He is impossible, I know, and often an incumbrance, but he's always appealing and noble, and I love him dearly.”