It seems that Johan had honored him with a friendly nod and an uplifted glass, which obliged him to arise and acknowledge the compliment.

In Denmark there is a great deal of skaal-drinking (skaal, in Danish, means drinking a toast).  I think there must be an eleventh commandment—­“Thou shalt not omit to skaal.”  The host drinks with every one, and every one drinks with every one else.  It seems to me to be rather a cheap way of being amiable, but it looks very friendly and sociable.  When a person of high rank drinks with one of lower the latter stands while emptying his glass.

When we left the table I did not feel that my Danish had gained much, and certainly my partner’s English had not improved.  However, we seemed to have conversed in a very spirited manner, which must have impressed the lookers-on with a sense of my partner’s talent for languages.

On our return to the salon we found more petroleum-lamps, and the candelabra lighted to exaggeration with wax candles.  The lamp-shades, which I thought were quite ingenious, were of paper, and contained dried ferns and even flattened-out butterflies between two sheets of shiny tissue-paper.  The salon had dark walls on which hung a collection of family portraits.  Ladies with puckered mouths and wasp-like waists had necks adorned with gorgeous pearls, which had apparently gone to an early grave with their wearers.  I saw no similar ones on the necks of the present generation.  After the coffee was served and a certain time allowed for breathing, the daughter of the house sat down, without being begged, at an upright piano, and attacked the “Moonlight Sonata.”  This seemed to be the signal for the ladies to bring out their work-bags.

The knitting made a pleasing accompaniment to the moonlight of the sonata, as if pelicans were gnashing their teeth in the dimness.  The sterner sex made a dash for the various albums and literature on the round table in the center of the room, and turned the leaves with a gentle flutter.  The sonata was finished in dead silence.  As it was performed by one of the family, no applause was necessary.  I was asked to sing; and, though I do not like to sing after dinner, I consented, not to be disobliging.  Before taking my seat on the revolving piano-stool I looked with a severe eye at the knitting-needles.  The ladies certainly did try to make less noise, but they went on knitting, all the same.

The flushed-with-success lawyer, wishing to show his appreciation of my singing, leaned gracefully across the piano, and said, “Kammerherrinde [that is my title], you sing as if you had a beard in your throat.”

“A what?” I gasped.  “A beard?”

“Yes! a beautiful beard,” and added, with a conscious smile, “I sing myself.”

Good heavens!  I thought, and asked, “Do you know what a beard is?”

“In Danish we call a beard a fugle” (pronounced fool.)