"Of course, you had always been a little lonely and cut off!" repeated Klaus Heinrich, with a ring of joy in his voice. "That's what I said. It was a dull, simple life in some ways that I led, and still lead, because it has not altered much, and is all much the same. There were parties with 'lions' and balls, and often a dash in a closed motor to the Opera House, where I sat in one of the little boxes above the stalls, so as to be well observed by everybody, for show, as we say. That was a necessary part of my position." "For show?" "Yes, for show; I mean the duty of showing oneself off, of not raising walls against the public, but letting them come into the garden and walk on the lawn and gaze at the terrace, watching us at tea. My father, Mr. Spoelmann, disliked it intensely. But it was a necessary consequence of our position." "What did you usually do besides, Miss Spoelmann?" "In the spring we went to our house in the Adirondacks and in the summer to our house at Newport-on-Sea. There were garden-parties of course, and battles of flowers and lawn-tennis tournaments, and we went for rides and drove four-in-hand or motored, and the people stood and gaped, because I was Samuel Spoelmann's daughter. And many shouted rude remarks after me." "Rude remarks?" "Yes, and they probably had reason to. At any rate it was something of a life in the limelight that we led, and one that invited discussion." "And between whiles," he said, "you played in the breezes, didn't you, or rather in a vacuum, where no dust came----" "That's right. Your Highness is pleased to mock my excess of candour. But in view of all this you can guess how extraordinarily welcome the Countess was to me, when she came to see me in Fifth Avenue. She does not express herself very clearly, but rather in a mysterious sort of way, and the boundary line at which she begins to drivel is not always quite clearly apparent. But that only strikes me as right and instructive, as it gives a good idea of the boundlessness of misery and wickedness in the world. You envy me the Countess, don't you?" "Envy? H'm. You seem to assume, Miss Spoelmann, that I have never had my eyes opened." "Have you?" "Once or twice, maybe. For instance, things have come to my ears about our lackeys, which you would scarcely dream of." "Are your lackeys so bad?" "Bad? Good-for-nothing, that's what they are. For one thing they play into each other's hands, and scheme, and take bribes from the tradesmen----" "But, Prince, that's comparatively harmless." "Yes, true, it's nothing to compare with the way the Countess has had her eyes opened."