"How soon shall we go?" she asked.
"In about three weeks or a month, I suppose," I answered.
We were sitting silent when we heard a step on the stairs. "Hark!" she said. "It's Max's step." She rose quickly and turned the lamp lower, then seated herself in shadow. "May I tell him about it now?" she asked.
"Yes—if it must be so."
"Yes, it must." She kissed her hand to me, saying, "Good-bye." The door opened, and Max von Sempach came in. Before he could greet me she began:
"Max, what do you think brings the King here to-day?"
Max professed himself at a loss.
"He's come about you," she said. "We've been talking about you."
"Have you? What about me?" he asked, going up to her. She rose and laid her hand on his arm.
"The King is going to give our side a turn," she said with a marvellous composure and even an appearance of gaiety.
"What?" cried Max. "Are you going to send Wetter to Paris, sire?"
"No," said I. "Not Wetter. He doesn't want it now, and anyhow he's not fit for it."
"He doesn't want it! Oh, but he does!"
"Max, you mustn't contradict the King. But one of our people is to have it. Guess who it is!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know who it is if it's not Wetter."
"It's you," she said. "Isn't it, sire?"
"If he likes it," said I. "Do you like it?"
