Mr. Hassler’s excitement carried him away. “Yes, you’ll be on the map!” he shouted, “as a German Provinz. We’ll stamp out a little of that damn arrogance.” “I say, are you trying to be funny?” “That damned British arrogance,” he went on, at the top of his voice. “You half-educated, half-trained, half-alive nation of money-greedy _pigs_----” “I say!” cried Mr. Naylor again, puzzled and angry, “You’re going a bit too far!” “PIGS!” shouted the young German. Naylor sprang to his feet, as white with anger as the other was red; he was on the point of speaking when Frances caught his arm. “Oh, please!” she entreated, and suddenly and helplessly, began to laugh. “Oh, why do Germans always call people pigs!” she cried. They all looked at her, and under their surprised glance, she struggled for self-control and gained it. She looked down at the ground, her mouth still quivering, and kept very still. “As for _you_----” began Mr. Hassler, and then stopped. “Now! Now!” begged Miss Eppendorfer, in terrible distress, “Now, gentlemen!... What about some nice cold beer?” She was afraid, though, to fetch it and leave the men alone; she was afraid also to ask Frances, not knowing whether or not she considered herself insulted in the person of her guest. She stood nervously smiling, her eyes on her cousin, mutely beseeching him to be placated by beer. At last Frances took pity on her, and went herself to get the stuff. But Mr. Naylor declined. “Thanks,” he said, stiff and outraged, “I’ll be going.” “Pshaw!” muttered Mr. Hassler, who stood at the window with his back turned ostentatiously. “What’s that?” demanded Mr. Naylor, crisply. “Pshaw!” the other repeated, somewhat louder. With a very obvious effort the young Englishman said nothing to this; he took his hat, and with a hasty hand-clasp for Frankie and a bow for Miss Eppendorfer, took himself off. Frankie went into her own room and tried to compose herself by reading, but not for long. Almost immediately the front door slammed and Miss Eppendorfer came into her room like a whirlwind. “There! You see!” she screamed. “You miserable creature! He’s gone! He’s gone!” Frances looked at her severely. “You’ve spoiled everything!” she went on. “How did you dare to laugh at him? What right have you to laugh at him! You’re nothing better than a servant. And he belongs to one of the finest families in Hamburg. His father’s worth nearly half a million. He’s been through Heidelberg. And you dare to laugh at him! Who are you, anyway? A big, gawky fool of a girl.... Picking up a man in the street and bringing him into my house.... He’s shocked at you.” And so on, in the strain that so sickened and dismayed Frances. “He laughs at you. He says you’re a clumsy, ignorant----” ... All manner of dirty insolence.