and he had a disconcerting habit of telling people so.
"Now, please don't take me for one of those fabulous Prussian officers who have swallowed the ramrod with which they were beaten in school," he said in his precise, beautiful English to Miss Virginia Ryan at the first dinner party given in his honor by the Wedekinds. "I assure you that I don't begin my morning prayer with shouting three times 'Hoch der Kaiser!' nor do I wind up the evening by getting dismally drunk on blond beer and singing some sentimental ditty about 'Die Lore am Thore.' I am—" he looked into her heavy-fringed, blue, Irish eyes, "well. . . Don't you think that I could easily pass for an American?"
"For an Englishman rather—I should say," replied Virginia Ryan.
"What's the difference?" laughed the Baron. "English or American? It's one and the same, and I. . ." He raised his voice slightly so that it carried the length of the dinner table, "We Germans—have a deep respect, a lasting admiration, even affection for the Anglo-Saxon peoples." He rose, glass in hand, as if carried away by the surging feelings in his heart. "Ladies and gentlemen! Pardon me—I know it's—oh—not the right thing to do, at such an informal little party. But will you permit me to drink to—ah"—looking at the men behind the table, successful men of the Northwest, hearty, well-fleshed, keen Americans with a sprinkling of Britons and Canadians—"to you! The Anglo-Saxons! First in freedom and achievement!"
The toast was taken up. Glasses clinked. Only Tom Graves and Martin Wedekind sat silent and moody.
There was no doubt that the Baron was a great so-
