“You will never use your title, then?”

Breitmann laughed.  “No.”

“You have made a great mistake.  You should have fired the first shot with it.  You would have married an heiress by this time,” ironically, “and all your troubles would be over.”

“Or begun,” in the same spirit.  “I’m no fortune hunter, in the sense you mean.  Pah!  I have no debts; no crumbling schloss to rebuild.  All I ask is to be let alone,” with a flash of that moodiness of which he had spoken.  “How long will you be here?”

“Can’t say.  Three or four days, perhaps.  It all depends.  What shall I say about you to them?”

“As little as possible.”

“And that’s really about all I could say,” with a suggestion.

But the other failed to meet the suggestion half-way.

“You might forget about my ragged linen in Paris,” acridly.

“I’ll omit that,” good-naturedly.  “Come, be cheerful; fortune’s wheel will turn, and it pulls up as well as down.  Remember that.”

“I must be on the ascendancy, for God knows that I am at the nadir just at present.”  He breathed in the sweet freshness which still clung to the morning, and settled his shoulders like a recruiting sergeant.

“How well the man has studied his English!” thought Fitzgerald.  He rarely hesitated for a word, and his idioms were always nicely adjusted.

The admiral was alone.  He received them with an easy courtliness, which is more noticeable in the old world than in the new.  He directed the servants to take charge of the luggage, and to Breitmann there was never a word about work.  That had all been decided by letter.  He urged the new secretary to return to the library as soon as he had established himself.

“Strange that you should know the man,” said the admiral.  “It comes in pat.  From what you say, he must be a brilliant fellow.  But this situation seems rather out of his line.”

“We all have our ups and downs, admiral.  I’ve known a pinch or two myself.  We are an improvident lot, we writers, who wander round the globe; rich to-day, poor to-morrow.  But on the other hand, it’s something to set down on paper what a king says, the turn of a battle, to hobnob with famous men, explorers, novelists, painters, soldiers, scientists, to say nothing of the meat in the pie and the bottom crust.  I’m going to write a novel some day myself.”

“Here,” said the admiral, with a sweep of the hand, which included the row upon row of books, “come here to do it.  Make it a pirate story; there’s always room for another.”

“But it takes a Stevenson to write it.  It is very good of you, though.  Where is Miss Killigrew this morning?”

“She hasn’t returned from her ride.  Ah!  Come in, Mr. Breitmann, and sit down.  By the way, you two must be fair horsemen.”

Breitmann smiled, and Fitzgerald laughed.

“I dare say,” replied the latter, “that there’s only one thing we two haven’t ridden:  ostriches.  Camels and elephants and donkeys; we’ve done some warm sprinting.  Eh, Breitmann?”