ckly nipped it by showing him that she enjoyed my companionship or
that of old Franz just as much. On such occasions Max's dignity and
vanity required balm.

"Oh, Karl," he said to me one evening while we were preparing for bed,
"it seems to me I have just wakened to life, or have just got out of
prison. No man can be happy on a pinnacle above the intimate friendships
of his fellow-man and--and woman."

"Yes, 'and woman.' Well put, Max," said I.

Max did not notice my insinuation, but continued:--

"I have lived longer since knowing these lowly friends than in all the
years of my life in Styria. Karl, you have spoiled a good, stiff-jointed
Hapsburg, but you have made a man. If nothing more comes of this journey
into the world than I have already had, I am your debtor for life. What
would my dear old father and mother say if they should see me and know
the life I am leading? In their eyes I should be disgraced--covered
with shame."

"When you go back to Hapsburg," I said, "you can again take up your
old, petrified existence and eat your husks of daily adulation. You will
soon again find satisfaction in the bended knee, and will insist that
those who approach you bow deferentially to your ancestors."

"I shall, of course, return to Hapsburg," he said. "It is my fate, and
no man can change the destiny to which he was born. I must also endure
the bowing and the adulation. Men shall honor my ancestors and respect
in me their descendant, but I shall never again be without friends if it
be in my power to possess them. As I have said, that is difficult for
one placed above his fellow-man."

"There is the trouble with men of your degree," I answered. "Friends are
not like castles, cities, and courtly servitors. Those, indeed, one may
really own; but we possess our friends only as they possess us. Like a
mirror, a friend gives us only what we ourselves give. No king is great
enough to produce his own image unless he stands before the glass."

"Teach me, Karl, to stand before the glass," said Max, plaintively.

"You are before it now, my dear boy," I answered. "These new friends are
giving you only what you give them. With me, you have always been before
the glass."

"That has been true," said Max, "ever since the first day you entered
Hapsburg. Do you remember? I climbed on your knee and said, 'You have a
big, ugly nose!' Mother admonished me, and I quickly made amends by
saying, 'But I like you.'"

"I well remember,