“Who is he?” I said. “And why does he sit always alone, with his back
to us, too?”
“Ah!” whispered the Frau Oberregierungsrat, “he is a _Baron_.”
She looked at me very solemnly, and yet with the slightest possible
contempt—a “fancy-not-recognising-that-at-the-first-glance” expression.
“But, poor soul, he cannot help it,” I said. “Surely that unfortunate
fact ought not to debar him from the pleasures of intellectual
intercourse.”
If it had not been for her fork I think she would have crossed herself.
“Surely you cannot understand. He is one of the First Barons.”
More than a little unnerved, she turned and spoke to the Frau Doktor on
her left.
“My omelette is empty—_empty_,” she protested, “and this is the third I
have tried!”
I looked at the First of the Barons. He was eating salad—taking a whole
lettuce leaf on his fork and absorbing it slowly, rabbit-wise—a
fascinating process to watch.
Small and slight, with scanty black hair and beard and yellow-toned
complexion, he invariably wore black serge clothes, a rough linen
shirt, black sandals, and the largest black-rimmed spectacles that I
had ever seen.
The Herr Oberlehrer, who sat opposite me, smiled benignantly.
“It must be very interesting for you, gnädige Frau, to be able to
watch... of course this is a _very fine house_. There was a lady from
the Spanish Court here in the summer; she had a liver. We often spoke
together.”