The Kaiser laughed.

“There, Lord Comber,” he said, “you see how I am ordered about.  They wish to cut short my conversation with you.  Yes, Bergmann, we will go on.  You will remain with me, Lord Comber, for this act.”

Immediately after the lights were lowered again, the curtain rose, and a most distracting hour began for Michael.  His neighbour was never still for a single moment.  Now he would shift in his chair, now with his hand he would beat time on the red velvet balustrade in front of him, and a stream of whispered appreciation and criticism flowed from him.

“They are taking the opening scene a little too slow,” he said.  “I shall call the director’s attention to that.  But that crescendo is well done; yes, that is most effective.  The shawl—­observe the beautiful lines into which the shawl falls as she waves it.  That is wonderful—­a very impressive entry.  Ah, but they should not cross the stage yet; it is more effective if they remain longer there.  Brangane sings finely; she warns them that the doom is near.”

He gave a little giggle, which reminded Michael of his father.

“Brangane is playing gooseberry, as you say in England,” he said.  “A big gooseberry, is she not?  Ah, bravo! bravo!  Wunderschon!  Yes, enter King Mark from his hunting.  Very fine.  Say I was particularly pleased with the entry of King Mark, Bergmann.  A wonderful act!  Wagner never touched greater heights.”

At the end the Emperor rose and again held out his hand.

“I am pleased to have seen you, Lord Comber,” he said.  “Do not forget my message to your father; and take my advice and come to Berlin in the winter.  We are always pleased to see the English in Germany.”

As Michael left the box he ran into the Herr-Director, who had been summoned to get a few hints.

He went back to join Falbe in a state of republican irritation, which the honour that had been done him did not at all assuage.  There was an hour’s interval before the third act, and the two drove back to their hotel to dine there.  But Michael found his friend wholly unsympathetic with his chagrin.  To him, it was quite clear, the disappointment of not having been able to attend very closely to the second act of Tristan was negligible compared to the cause that had occasioned it.  It was possible for the ordinary mortal to see Tristan over and over again, but to converse with the Kaiser was a thing outside the range of the average man.  And again in this interval, as during the act itself, Michael was bombarded with questions.  What did the Kaiser say?  Did he remember Ashbridge?  Did Michael twice receive the iron grip?  Did the All-highest say anything about the manoeuvres?  Did he look tired, or was it only the light above his head that made him appear so haggard?  Even his opinion about the opera was of interest.  Did he express approval?

This was too much for Michael.

“My dear Hermann,” he said, “we alluded very cautiously to the ’Song to Aegir’ this morning, and delicately remarked that you had heard it once and I twice.  How can you care what his opinion of this opera is?”