We were bundled back to the hotel, flowers, wraps, maid, satellites, and I went to see about the supper. In fifteen minutes it was ready; and in twenty minutes more Madame A. came, quite rosy, all awake temperamentally, inquisitive, defensive, coquettish, eager. We are all greedy animals at best--the finer the greedier. The whole world is looking to see what life will give it to eat--from ideas, emotions, enthusiasms down to grass and potatoes. We are organized appetites, magnificent, dramatic, pathetic at times, but appetites just the same. The greater the appetite the more magnificent the spectacle. Satiety is deadly discouraging. The human stomach is the grand central organ--life in all its amazing, subtle, heavenly, pathetic ramifications has been built up around that. The most pathetic thing in life is a hungry man; the most stirringly disturbing thing, a triumphant, greedy one. Madame A. sat down to our cold chicken, salad, champagne, and coffee with beaming birdlike eyes. “Oh, it is so good to see you again!” she declared; but her eyes were on the chicken. “I was so afraid when I wrote you from Munich that you would not get my letter. I can’t tell you how you appeal to me; we have only met twice, yet you see we are quite old friends already!” Just as her none too subtle flattery was beginning to work, she remarked casually, “Do you know Mr. Barfleur well?” “Oh, fairly well. Yes, I know a little something about him.” “You like him, don’t you?” “I am very fond of him,” I answered, my vanity deflating rapidly. “He is so fond of you,” she assured me. “Oh, he admires you so much. What you think must have considerable weight with him, eh? Where did you first meet him?” she asked. “In New York.” “Now, between us: he is one of the few men in the world I deeply care for--but I don’t think he cares for me.” “Good Lord!” I said to myself wearily, “why is it that all the charming ladies I meet either are or have been in love with Barfleur. It’s getting monotonous!” But I had to smile. “You will visit me in Berlin?” she was saying. “I will be back by the twenty-sixth. Can’t you wait that long? Berlin is so interesting. When I come, we shall have such nice talks!” “Yes--about Barfleur!” I thought to myself. Aloud I said vaguely, “It is charming of you; I will stop over to see you, if I possibly can.” Then I said good night and left. CHAPTER XLVII BERLIN Berlin, when I reached it, first manifested itself in a driving rain. If I laugh at it forever and ever as a blunder-headed, vainglorious, self-appreciative city I shall always love it too. Paris has had its day, and will no doubt have others; London is content with an endless, conservative day; Berlin’s is still to come and come brilliantly. The blood is there, and the hope, and the moody, lustful, Wagnerian temperament.