“No,” I replied.
“No,” he echoed with regret. “You are English. I saw you smoke a pipe. But you know my real name? I am Captain Schneidlitz here.”
I laughed. “Pardon me, General, I have been amusing myself with your surprise. My father was British Minister at Tsalburg for many years. As a boy I spent my holidays there. Hence my accent.”
“Your name is—?” he demanded.
“Havensea,” I answered.
“Then your father is ——?”
“Exactly. I am now the head of my family. It is a large family, General. I have tens of aunts; my cousins are limitless. I pass an uneasy life trying to evade them and my unnecessary title. It is difficult—please respect my incognito as I respect yours, Captain Schneidlitz.”
“You dislike your title?” he asked eagerly.
“The coronet has given me a headache of the soul. You don’t know how terrible a British title is. It is a mere lever for opening bazaars, a free ticket to everybody’s dinners.”
“You object to yourself?” His question, the question of the man of granite, was tremulous with excitement.