"I have seen her posters," said Trafford, "and I should like, I confess, to see the original. But what of Mrs. Saunders? Is the 'Eden' a respectable place of entertainment?" "It is an Eden of more Adams than Eves," said Mrs. Saunders. "No, I do not propose to follow you into its smoky, beer-laden atmosphere. I am going to accompany Frau generalin von Bilderbaum to the opera to hear 'La Bohême.' But before I leave I want further enlightenment on the subject of your toast. 'Wein' is all right, and 'Gesang' is all right, but what about 'Weib'? I thought you had sworn off the sex." "Sworn off the sex!--Never! True, I offered to one individual my heart, and hand, and soul; but the individual deemed the offering unsatisfactory. I now offer to the whole female race what I once offered to one member of it." "Polygamist!" laughed Saunders. "No," explained Trafford, "it's a case of first come, first served." "You are offering your heart and hand and soul to the first eligible maiden who crosses your path?" asked Mrs. Saunders, with upraised brows. "My heart and hand," corrected Trafford with great dignity. "Come, come," Saunders broke forth, "it's time we were off!" * * * * * The auditorium of the Eden Theatre was a long oblong chamber, with a crude scheme of decoration, and no scheme of ventilation worth speaking about. It possessed, however, a good orchestra, an excellent brew of lager beer, and usually presented a tolerably attractive show to the public of Weidenbruck. For the sum of four kronen per head Saunders and Trafford obtained the best seats in the building. For the expenditure of a further trivial sum they obtained long tumblers of the world-famed _tigerbräu_. "A promising show this," said Trafford, lighting a large cigar. An exceedingly plump lady in magenta tights, was warbling a patriotic ditty to the tune of "Won't you come home, Bill Bailey?" "More quantity than quality," commented Saunders cynically. "Personally,--not being possessed of your all-embracing enthusiasm for womanhood at large,--I find myself looking forward to the next item on the programme." "What's that? The 'Rothlied'?" "No. Midgets." Trafford uttered an exclamation of disgust. "Little things amuse little minds," he said rudely. "Give me a strong man or a giant, and I will watch with interest." At this point the curtain descended on the plump warbler, and a powdered attendant in plush knickerbockers removed the number 7 from the wings, and substituted the number 9. "Oh, it isn't the midgets yet, after all," said Saunders, consulting his programme. "It's the _Schöne Fräulein Schmitt_--the beautiful Miss Smith. I wonder if she's as lovely as her posters." As the curtain drew up again, a young girl tripped lightly on to the middle of the stage, and it was at once manifest that the epithet "_schone_" was no mere advertising euphemism.