Where can my brother be? The feast is given for him and he is the last to appear. Brachtmann. He's probably doing what we all do the day after. Poring over the papers. Prince. And wondering how it is that yesterday's laurels have already turned into thorns. Baron Ludwig. Ah, that's part of the game. Prince. No, it's the end of the game. Beata. What do you mean, Prince? Prince. That our growth ceases when we gain our end. Attainment means being nailed fast--nailed to a cross, sometimes! Kellinghausen. (_While_ Conrad _hands about glasses of wine_.) Gentlemen, won't you drop your epigrams and try some of my port? Prince. It's his Excellency's doing. He always begins! _Enter a footman_. The Footman. Baron Richard von Voelkerlingk. (_There is an expectant murmur_.) _Enter_ Richard. Brachtmann (_aside to_ Prince). I told you there was nothing wrong. Prince. Wait and see. Richard (_kissing_ Beata's _hand_). Forgive my being so late. A dozen things turned up at the last moment. Excuse me, Michael. (_The_ Prince _makes a sign to_ Brachtmann.) Kellinghausen. (_Shaking hands composedly with_ Richard.) Don't mention it, my dear fellow. We are lucky to get you at all. The man of the hour you can't have a moment to yourself. Richard. I've not had many yet. (_Shakes hands with him again and then turns to the others_.) Beata. Shall we have luncheon? Voelkerlingk, you can join us when you've had your caviare. (Richard _makes a gesture refusing the hors-d'[oe]uvre_.) Brachtmann (_aside to the_ Prince). Well? Prince. Irreproachable, as usual. Brachtmann. Thank God! (_They all seat themselves_.) Prince (_to_ Baron Ludwig). I can't make your brother out. You know him better than we do. Look at his face--what's the matter with him? Baron Ludwig. We are such complicated machines, your Highness. It's impossible to explain any one with a word. Beata. Take a hundred, then. (_With a short excited laugh_.) Life is long enough! Kellinghausen (_to himself_). Yes. Life is long enough. Richard. Instead of discussing my appearance I wish you would criticise my speech. Prince. What a _gourmet_ he is, Countess! He wants the disapproval of his friends to season the praise of his enemies!