It was especially annoying, coming as it did, just as I was about to
set off for a fortnight's motor-boat trip up the Danube with Elsie
Hazzard and her stupid husband, the doctor. I compromised with myself
by deciding to give them a week of my dreamy company, and then dash
off to England where I could work off the story in a sequestered village
I had had in mind for some time past.

The fourth day of our delectable excursion brought us to an ancient
town whose name you would recall in an instant if I were fool enough
to mention it, and where we were to put up for the night. On the crest
of a stupendous crag overhanging the river, almost opposite the town,
which isn't far from Krems, stood the venerable but unvenerated castle
of that highhanded old robber baron, the first of the Rothhoefens. He
has been in his sarcophagus these six centuries, I am advised, but you
wouldn't think so to look at the stronghold. At a glance you can almost
convince yourself that he is still there, with battle-axe and
broad-sword, and an inflamed eye at every window in the grim facade.

We picked up a little of its history while in the town, and the next
morning crossed over to visit the place. Its antiquity was considerably
enhanced by the presence of a caretaker who would never see eighty
again, and whose wife was even older. Their two sons lived with them
in the capacity of loafers and, as things go in these rapid times of
ours, appeared to be even older and more sere than their parents.

It is a winding and tortuous road that leads up to the portals of this
huge old pile, and I couldn't help thinking how stupid I have always
been in execrating the spirit of progress that conceives the funicular
and rack-and-pinion railroads which serve to commercialise grandeur