"There are two new guests arriving this afternoon," said the manager of the
pension, placing a chair for me at the breakfast table. "I have only
received the letter acquainting me with the fact this morning. The
Baroness von Gall is sending her little daughter--the poor child is
dumb--to make the 'cure.' She is to stay with us a month, and then the
Baroness herself is coming."

"Baroness von Gall," cried the Frau Doktor, coming into the room and
positively scenting the name. "Coming here? There was a picture of her
only last week in 'Sport and Salon.' She is a friend of the court: I have
heard that the Kaiserin says 'du' to her. But this is delightful! I shall
take my doctor's advice and spend an extra six weeks here. There is
nothing like young society."

"But the child is dumb," ventured the manager apologetically.

"Bah! What does that matter? Afflicted children have such pretty ways."

Each guest who came into the breakfast-room was bombarded with the
wonderful news. "The Baroness von Gall is sending her little daughter
here; the Baroness herself is coming in a month's time." Coffee and rolls
took on the nature of an orgy. We positively scintillated. Anecdotes of
the High Born were poured out, sweetened and sipped: we gorged on scandals
of High Birth generously buttered.

"They are to have the room next to yours," said the manager, addressing me.
"I was wondering if you would permit me to take down the portrait of the
Kaiserin Elizabeth from above your bed to hang over their sofa."