"I mean," went on Saunders with slow emphasis, "that if you demand what your heart really desires and the response is 'no,' you will, in the words of the prehistoric doggerel, try, try again. Love that accepts defeat is an unhealthy passion; Love that tries to find relief in death is a disease. You are diseased, _cher ami_. Buck up! and listen to the words of your good doctor." "I'm listening," said Trafford somewhat sheepishly. "Good! To begin with, you are sound physically. Muscles firm, energy splendid, and your tongue would probably shame a hot-house geranium. But your psychic self is out of gear. Wheels are racing in your poor old brain! Little troubles become great tragedies! Vital things seem small and insignificant! You need a potent remedy." "Let it come over speedy then!" the American replied with some show of interest. For a moment the Englishman looked mystified. Presently he answered: "You need to live in the open--plenty of sunshine and perfect air." "All kibosh--buncombe!" broke forth Trafford petulantly. "No, not buncombe, but Grimland--a little country on the borders of Austria and Russia. Visit it," went on Saunders in rousing tones. "Its highlands furnish the finest scenery in Europe. The air of its mountains is sparkling champagne! Its skies are purest sapphire, its snows whiter than sheets of finest lawn! To dwell there is to be a giant refreshed with wine, a sane man with a sane mind, and a proper contempt for amorous contretemps. Come, pack up your traps to-night and catch the _Lusitania_ to-morrow. What's more, I do not advise, I command." The American appeared half persuaded by the other's mastery. He sat upright, and looked more or less alive again. "But I should be bored to death," he objected feebly. "Not a bit of it! Why, old man, you'll forget the very meaning of the word boredom. You're a skater?--well, then, why not enter for the King's Cup which is skated for on the King's birthday--the second Saturday of the New Year at Weidenbruck. If you're beaten, as is probable,--for the Grimlanders are a nation of skaters,--there is tobogganing, curling, ski-ing and hockey-on-the-ice to engross your mind. All are exhilarating, most are dangerous. Furthermore, you will have my society--as my wife and I will be guests of King Karl at the Neptunberg. However, for you, since you have not my advantages, I recommend the Hôtel Concordia. You will sail with us to-morrow?" he wound up confidently. Trafford made a gesture of impatience. "Honestly," he said, ignoring the question, "when the hammer of that gun clicked against my forehead, something also seemed to click inside my brain. Up to that point I had love framed up as all there was to this world and the next. Now I feel there is no meaning in anything."