"Oh, of course. I've had a talk with my Minister of Finance and Agriculture. It was time I did. Doctor Krippenreuther would have been bitterly disappointed with me if I had not summoned him once more. He went ahead in summary fashion and laid before me a conspectus of several mutually related topics at once--the harvest, the new principles for the drawing up of the budget, the reform of taxation, on which he is busy. The harvest has been a bad one, it seems. The peasants have been hit by blight and bad weather; not only they, but Krippenreuther too, are much concerned about it, because the tax-paying resources of the land, he says, have once more suffered contraction. Besides, there have unfortunately been disasters in more than one of the silver-mines. The gear is at a standstill, says Krippenreuther, it is damaged and will cost a lot of money to repair. I listened to the whole recital with an appropriate expression on my face, and did what I could to express my grief for such a series of misfortunes. Next, I was consulted as to whether the cost of the necessary new buildings for the Treasury and for the Woods and Customs and Inland Revenue Offices ought to be debited to the ordinary or the extraordinary estimates; I learnt a lot about sliding scales, and income tax, and tax on tourist traffic, and the removal of burdens from oppressed agriculture and the imposition of burdens on the towns; and on the whole I got the impression that Krippenreuther was well up in his subject. I, of course, know practically nothing about it--which Krippenreuther knows and approves; so I just said 'yes, yes,' and 'of course,' and 'many thanks,' and let him run on." "You speak so bitterly, Albrecht." "No; I'll just tell you what struck me while Krippenreuther was holding forth to me to-day. There's a man living in this town, a man with small private means and a warty nose. Every child knows him and shouts 'Hi!' when he sees him; he is called 'the Hatter,' for he is not quite all there; his surname he has lost long ago. He is always on the spot when there is anything going on, although his half-wittedness keeps him from playing any serious part in anything; he wears a rose in his buttonhole, and carries his hat about on the end of his walking-stick. Twice a day, about the time when a train starts, he goes to the station, taps the wheels, examines the luggage, and fusses about. Then when the guard blows his whistle, 'the Hatter' waves to the engine-driver, and the train starts. But 'the Hatter' deludes himself into thinking that his waving sends the train off. That's like me. I wave, and the train starts. But it would start without me, and my waving makes no difference, it's mere silly show. I'm sick of it...." The brother and sister were silent. Ditlinde looked at her lap in an embarrassed way, and Klaus Heinrich gazed, as he tugged at his little bow-shaped moustache, between her and the Grand Duke at the bright window.