"I only hope," said Klaus Heinrich, "that our people are not wanting in respect...." "Thanks, not so bad," answered Mr. Spoelmann. "The people are at least friendly here; one doesn't see murder written in their eyes." "I hope, Mr. Spoelmann," and Klaus Heinrich felt more at his ease, now that the conversation had turned, and the questioning lay with him, "that, notwithstanding the unusual circumstances, you continue to enjoy your stay amongst us." "Thanks," said Mr. Spoelmann, "I'm quite comfortable, and the water is the only thing which really does do me some good." "You did not find it a wrench to leave America?" Klaus Heinrich felt a look, a quick, suspicious, shy look, which he could not interpret. "No," said Mr. Spoelmann, sharply and crossly. That was all his answer to the question whether he felt it a wrench to leave America. A pause ensued. Countess Löwenjoul held her smooth little head inclined to one side, and smiled a distant Madonna-like smile. Miss Spoelmann watched Klaus Heinrich fixedly with her big black eyes, as if testing the effect of her father's extraordinary boorishness on the guest,--indeed, Klaus Heinrich felt that she was waiting with resignation and sympathy for him to get up and take his departure for good and all. He met her eyes, and remained. Mr. Spoelmann, for his part, drew out a gold case and took out a fat cigarette, which, when lighted, diffused a delicious fragrance. "Smoke?" he asked.... And as Klaus Heinrich found that there was no objection, he helped himself, after Mr. Spoelmann, out of the proffered case. They then discussed various topics before proceeding to an inspection of the glass--chiefly Klaus Heinrich and Miss Spoelmann, for the Countess's thoughts were wandering, and Mr. Spoelmann only interpolated a cross remark now and then: the local theatre, the huge ship in which the Spoelmanns had crossed to Europe. No, they had not used their yacht for the purpose. Its primary object was to take Mr. Spoelmann to sea in the evening in the heat of summer, when he was tied to his business and Imma and the Countess were in Newport; he used to pass the night on deck. She was now lying at Venice. But they had crossed in a huge steamer, a floating hotel with concert rooms and gymnasia. "She had five storeys," said Miss Spoelmann. "Counting from below?" asked Klaus Heinrich. And she answered at once: "Of course. Six, counting from above."