guished by the consciousness of official greatness. For Count Vogelstein was official, as I think you would have seen from the straightness of his back, the lustre of his light, elegant spectacles, and something discreet and diplomatic in the curve of his mustache, which looked as if it might well contribute to the principal function, as cynics say, of the lips,—the concealment of thought. He had been appointed to the secretaryship of the German legation at Washington, and in these first days of the autumn he was going to take possession of his post. He was a model character for such a purpose,—serious, civil, ceremonious, stiff, inquisitive, stuffed with knowledge, and convinced that at present the German empire is the country in the world most highly evolved. He was quite aware, however, of the claims of the United States, and that this portion of the globe presented an enormous field for study.
The process of inquiry had already begun, in spite of his having as yet spoken to none of his fellow-passengers, for Vogelstein inquired not only with his tongue,—he inquired with his eyes (that is, with his spectacles), with his ears, with his nose, with his palate, with all his senses and organs. He was an excellent young man, and his only fault was that he had not a high sense of humor. He had enough, however, to suspect this deficiency, and he was aware that he was about to visit a highly humorous people. This suspicion gave him a certain mistrust of what might be said of him; and if circumspection is
