y."

The count looked discontentedly at his daughter. "For excessively
lyrical nerves," he said, "perhaps a little employment would be
advisable."

"Why, Hamilcar," parried Aunt Betty.

Lisa raised her eyebrows resignedly and turned to the tutor to begin an
amiable conversation: "Is it as hot as this in your home, too, Mr.
Post?"

Upstairs Billy appeared at the door of the sun-parlor in a white dress
with red roses at her belt, and as she came down the steps to the
porch, all looked up at her and smiled involuntarily. She smiled too,
as if bringing something pleasant. Bob voiced the general feeling by
crying, "Today Billy looks first-class again." Boris followed her and
at once took possession of her, to talk to her in a low voice. He
always spoke with ladies in that way, as if what he said were
confidential.

All the inmates of the house were now assembled, except the professor's
wife. She always kept people waiting.

"Oh yes, my wife," remarked the professor, "she gives me sufficient
proof that time is something subjective. She always has her own."

At last she came, heated and with fluttering red cap-ribbons. They
could go to dinner.

Count Hamilcar loved this situation: to sit at the head of the long
table, look down the lines of young faces, and hear the buzzing of the
lowered voices. That cheered him. Then he kept up the conversation, and
tried to have it agreeable and harmonious. But today something like a
discordant note came into it.

They were talking politics. The professor was a patriot and a
National Liberal. He interrupted the consumption of his peas, seized
a crouton with thumb and forefinger, gesticulated with it, and said
enthusiastically,

"Now, if you please, in science I as a scholar follow reason and logic
quite unreservedly, wherever they may lead me, but in politics it is
different, there an important factor is added, an emotion, the love of
the German fatherland. Understanding and logic must share the supremacy
with love, no, what am I saying--they must be subordinate to love; yes,
actually subordinate. So I too am quite ready to be at times illogical
for love of the fatherland. Yes, my dear count, I am."

He looked triumphantly about him and laughed.

"Surely, surely," said the count, "it would be a bad thing anyway, if
we were not now and then willing to be illogical."

Here Boris bent forward and began to speak with his slightly singing
Slavic accent and his trilled r:

"Yo