“Yes, yes,” he repeated, “I must have you do that, Sylvia.  I don’t care what Hermann wants or what you want.  I want it.”

“Yes, but who’s to do the playing and the singing?” asked Hermann.  “Isn’t it a question, perhaps, for—­”

Michael felt quite secure about the feelings of the other two, and rudely interrupted.

“No,” he said.  “It’s a question for me.  When the Fatherland hears that I am there it will no doubt ask me to play and sing instead of you two.  Lord!  Fancy marrying into such a distinguished family.  I burst with pride!”

It required, then, little debate, since all three were agreed, before Hermann was empowered with authority to make arrangements, and they remained simultaneously talking till Mrs. Falbe, again drifting in, announced that the bell for dinner had sounded some minutes before.  She had her finger in the last chapter of “Lady Ursula’s Ordeal,” and laid it face downwards on the table to resume again at the earliest possible moment.  This opportunity was granted her when, at the close of dinner, coffee and the evening paper came in together.  This Hermann opened at the middle page.

“Hallo!” he said.  “That’s horrible!  The Heir Apparent of the Austrian Emperor has been murdered at Serajevo.  Servian plot, apparently.”

“Oh, what a dreadful thing,” said Mrs. Falbe, opening her book.  “Poor man, what had he done?”

Hermann took a cigarette, frowning.

“It may be a match—­” he began.

Mrs. Falbe diverted her attention from “Lady Ursula” for a moment.

“They are on the chimney-piece, dear,” she said, thinking he spoke of material matches.

Michael felt that Hermann saw something, or conjectured something ominous in this news, for he sat with knitted brow reading, and letting the match burn down.

“Yes; it seems that Servian officers are implicated,” he said.  “And there are materials enough already for a row between Austria and Servia without this.”

“Those tiresome Balkan States,” said Mrs. Falbe, slowly immersing herself like a diving submarine in her book.  “They are always quarrelling.  Why doesn’t Austria conquer them all and have done with it?”

This simple and striking solution of the whole Balkan question was her final contribution to the topic, for at this moment she became completely submerged, and cut off, so to speak, from the outer world, in the lucent depths of Lady Ursula.

Hermann glanced through the other pages, and let the paper slide to the floor.

“What will Austria do?” he said.  “Supposing she threatens Servia in some outrageous way and Russia says she won’t stand it?  What then?”

Michael looked across to Sylvia; he was much more interested in the way she dabbled the tips of her hands in the cool water of her finger bowl than in what Hermann was saying.  Her fingers had an extraordinary life of their own; just now they were like a group of maidens by a fountain. . . .  But Hermann repeated the question to him personally.