nd his heart was full. So, presently, he rose to his feet, struck his
glass, and, in spite of Schilsky's deepening scowl, held a flowery
speech about his departing friend. The only answer Schilsky gave was a
muttered request to cease making an idiot of himself.

This was going rather too far; but no one protested, except Ford, the
pianist, who said in English: "Speesch? Call that a speesch?"

Furst, inclined in the first moment of rebuff to be touchy, allowed his
natural goodness of heart to prevail. He leaned forward, and said, not
without pathos: "Old man, we are all your friends here. Something's the
matter. Tell us what it is."

Before Schilsky could reply, Krafft awakened from his apparent stupor
to say with extreme distinctness: "I'll tell you. There's been the
devil to pay."

"Now, chuck it, Krafft!" cried one or two, not without alarm at the
turn things might take.

But Schilsky, whose anger had begun to subside under the influence of
the two litres he had drunk, said slowly and thickly: "Let him be. What
he says is the truth--gospel truth."

"Oh, say, that's to' bad!" cried one of the Americans--a lean man, with
the mouth and chin of a Methodist.

All kept silence now, in the hope that Schilsky would continue. As he
did not, but sat brooding, Furst, in his role of peacemaker, clapped
him on the back. "Well, forget it for to-night, old man! What does it
matter? To-morrow you'll be miles away."

This struck a reminiscence in Ford, who forthwith tried to sing:

I'm off by the morning train,
Across the raging main----

"That's easily said!" Schilsky threw a dark look round the table. "By
those who haven't been through it. I have. And I'd rather have lost a
hand."

Krafft laughed--that is to say, a cackle of laughter issued from his
mouth, while his glazed eyes stared idiotically. "He shall tell us
about it. Waiter, a round of SCHNAPS!"

"Shut up, Krafft!" said Furst uneasily.

"Damn you, Heinz!" cried Schilsky, striking the table. He swallowed his
brandy at a gulp, and held out the glass to be refilled. His anger fell
still more; he began to commiserate himself. "By Hell, I wish a plague
would sweep every woman off the earth!"

"The deuce, why don't you keep clear of them?"

Schilsky laughed, without raising his heavy eyes. "If they'd only give
one the chance. Damn them all!--old and young----I say. If it weren't
for them, a man could lead a quiet life."

"It'll all come out in the wash,"