While I was crossing the park on my way back to Whitehall, the wind moaned and groaned--it did not breathe. The stars did not twinkle--they glared. The nightingales did not sing--they screamed. And the roses were odorless. Perhaps all this change to gloom was within me rather than without, but it existed just the same, and I went home and to bed, hating all the world save Bettina, whom I vowed for the hundredth time never to see again. The next day at noon De Grammont came to my closet, where I had waited for him all morning. "Welcome to you, dear count!" I cried, leading him by the hand to a chair. "Perhaps you will not so warmly welcome me," he returned, "when you learn my errand." "I already know your errand, Count Grammont, and it makes you doubly welcome," I answered, drawing a chair for myself and sitting down in front of him. "Ah, that is of good," he returned, rubbing his hands. "You already know the purpose of my visit?" "Yes, I do, my dear count, but any purpose would delight me which brings the pleasure of your company." "Ah, it is said like a civilized man," he returned, complimenting me by speaking English, though I shall not attempt to reproduce his pronunciation. "How far better it is to say: 'Monsieur, permit to me,' before one runs a man through than to do it as though one were sticking a mere pig. Is it not so?" "True as sunshine, my dear count," I returned. "There's a vast difference between the trade of butchering and the gentle art of murder." De Grammont threw back his head, laughing softly. "Ah, good, good! Very good, dear baron! The sentiment is beau-ti-ful and could not be better expressed--in English. You should have been born across the channel." "I wish I had been born any place, not excepting hell, rather than in England," I answered. "True, true, what a hole it is," returned the count, regretfully. "The Englishman is one pig." He saw by the expression of my face that while I might abuse my own countrymen, I did not relish hearing it from others, so with true French tact he held up his hand to keep me from speaking till he could correct himself. "Pardon, baron, I forgot the 'r,' The Englishman's affectation of a virtue he despises makes of him a prig--not a pig. Non, non! Mon Dieu! Not a pig--a prig! Is it not so?" "True, true, count," I returned, unable to restrain a laugh. "It is the affectation of virtue that makes frank vice attractive by comparison." "Ah, true, true, my dear baron. May I proceed with my errand?" "Proceed, count."