LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER V

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      “This,” Patricia told Mildenhall as he took his place in the high-backed chair next to her at the dining table, “is what Mr. Benjamin’s industrious librarian calls in his guide to the house ‘the smaller banqueting hall.’ The fact that there is room for eighty to sit at this table he carefully ignores. One of Mr. Benjamin’s visiting friends called it ‘The Room of Faded Splendours.’”

      “He was probably not a person of observation,” Mildenhall remarked. “A few hundreds of years only added subtlety to the colouring of Gobelin tapestries and the wonder of the world is still the freshness of these Renaissance paintings. I have never dined before facing a genuine Andrea del Sarto.”

      “And what do you think of your servitors?” she asked smiling.

      He glanced round the table. Behind every chair, in plain but attractive costume, stood a Viennese parlourmaid. With the exception of Heinrich, the butler, there was only one manservant in the room—the wine seneschal—and he stood immovable behind his master’s chair.

      “To tell you the truth,” Mildenhall confided, “it was the strangeness of the—er—domestic staff which I noticed even before I realized the wonder of the picture.”

      “The service is an old feature of the housekeeping here,” Patricia said. “It was like this in Mr. Benjamin’s father’s time and his grandfather’s.”

      “To me it always seems,” the Baroness remarked from his other side, “that, notwithstanding all its treasures, the most wonderful thing in the house is its owner.”

      “This is only the second time I have seen him,” Mildenhall observed, “but I should think you are probably right.”

      “If he were not a Jew,” she went on, “if he had been able to give his whole attention to politics, he would without a doubt have led the country. I do not think that it would have been in its present unhappy state. I think it would still have been a monarchy with a court the most brilliant in Europe.”

      “It is an interesting speculation,” Mildenhall admitted. “I doubt, though, whether the bourgeoisie of any country would submit to a revival of monarchal rule in these days.”

      “England, my friend! England!”

      “The only exception,” he agreed, “and Cromwell wasn’t much of a dictator, was he? England is a difficult problem for any historian. When I was at Oxford the professors told us that the Stuarts had murdered the bourgeoisie just as the Pitts crushed labour.”

      “The English tolerate Jews as we do, don’t they?” Patricia asked.

      “Rather,” he answered. “I should imagine that it is to the Jews England owes her financial prosperity. Except for Disraeli they have never been a success in politics. They may even have made us a nation of shopkeepers, but they are the greatest and most vital force in the country now. It is in the professions, too, that they have triumphed so completely. If Leopold Benjamin had been an Englishman, he would have been Prime Minister, beyond a doubt.”

      “There is one thing I do not like about this evening,” Dr. Schwarz remarked, leaning forward in his place. “It is the silence in the streets. When the Viennese is gay he sings; when he is sad he shuts himself up at home. To-night he does not make the promenade. Even the cafés are half empty.”

      “Does anyone know,” the Princess Sophie, an ample lady who wore a single eyeglass and was scarcely ever a moment without a cigarette between her lips, asked, “whether the Von Liebenstrahl ball has been postponed?”

      “I called at the Embassy on my way down,” Charles Mildenhall confided, “and everyone was preparing. Lady Tremearne is giving a large dinner for it.”

      “You are going to the ball afterwards?” the Baroness asked eagerly.

      “I believe so,” he answered.

      “Fortunate man!”

      “It is doubtless quite a spectacle, but there are still far more wonderful things to be seen in this house.”

      “That depends, my friend,” she said. “For a woman, a great feast of colour, the latest models of all the dressmakers in Europe, a wealth of jewellery that is only seen once a year, the handsomest of all our men who put on their uniforms and deck themselves out for this one occasion—oh, it is a great sight!”

      “You may be disappointed this time,” he remarked. “I came from Bucharest here. Two years ago special planes brought down the King and some of the Court. Nothing of that sort is happening now.”

      “The old Prince,” she reflected, “is as stubborn as a mule. I think everyone hoped that it would be postponed. I do not like our lovely music here played to the accompaniment of bombing planes. The joys of peace and the horrors of war and revolution should be kept, I think, a long way apart.”

      Mildenhall turned to the girl on his other side.

      “They told me at the Embassy, Miss Grey, that the wonderful galleries here were closed for the present. Is that true?”

      She looked at him a little doubtfully.

      “I’m afraid so,” she answered. “It nearly broke my Chief’s heart, but they all thought that it was necessary.”

      Mr. Benjamin leaned across the table.

      “Is it true that you wished to see my pictures?” he asked.

      “Indeed it is, sir,” Mildenhall acknowledged. “Believe me, though, I quite understand. You are the custodian of such beautiful things that for the sake of the next generation, as well as for the rest of ours, you must keep them without risk for saner times.”

      Mr. Benjamin shook his head sorrowfully.

      “It is not the mad people who parade the streets whom I fear,” he said. “Not even the worst of them would damage my home or do harm to my treasures. It is a colder, more calculating business altogether which places them in danger. I have been obliged to take steps—”

      Patricia leaned across the table.

      “Mr. Benjamin!” she begged.

      He smiled at her gently.

      “But, my dear,” he remonstrated, “to-night we are just a party of friends—so few of us—not a single stranger.”

      “Mr. Benjamin!” she pleaded once more.

      He glanced round the table.

      “But, my dear Patricia,” he repeated, “I admire your zeal and you know that I appreciate your care for everything that is so precious to me, but my little explanation of why I have to refuse so simple and gracious a request was necessary. Surely I may exonerate myself?”

      “Mr. Benjamin,” she said firmly, “the words you were about

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