A certain genial personage gathers around him several times weekly, in a small, low-ceilinged room in the palace, a small but select circle of men on whom be bestows his confidence. Sitting on wooden stools, often in their shirt-sleeves, beer tankards before them on the great open table, Dutch clay pipes in their mouths, they entertain each other in the most unrestrained manner in spite of the exalted position held by most of these men. Some who do not smoke hold cold pipes between their teeth, that they may not mar the harmony of the picture. One member of the circle is singled out nightly as an object for mirth, and the choice is made by lot. Each and every one can in turn become the butt of merry satire. To have been present at a meeting of this oddest of all court gatherings would furnish me with the most notable memory I could carry away from Berlin.
KING.
Egad, Grumbkow! I believe he means our Smoker.
HOTHAM.
The world-renowned Prussian "tobacco-conference."
KING.
And you have—the gentleman has—no. [He rises.] I shan't use the customary procedure any more. Baronet Hotham, you have heard of my Smokers? You have said nice things about them. That reconciles me—can you smoke?
HOTHAM.
Yes, Your Majesty, the light Dutch Varinas, at least.