His face grew serious in an instant. "Not yet, Dawn. Later. Let us hear
more about the book. Not so flippant, however, small one. The time is
past when you can deceive me with your nonsense."

"Surely you would not have me take myself seriously! That's another debt
I owe my Irish forefathers. They could laugh--bless 'em!--in the very
teeth of a potato crop failure. And let me tell you, that takes some
sense of humor. The book is my potato crop. If it fails it will mean
that I must keep on drudging, with a knot or two taken in my belt. But
I'll squeeze a smile out of the corner of my mouth, somehow. And if it
succeeds! Oh, Ernst, if it succeeds!"

"Then, Kindchen?"

"Then it means that I may have a little thin layer of jam on my bread
and butter. It won't mean money--at least, I don't think it will. A
first book never does. But it will mean a future. It will mean that I
will have something solid to stand on. It will be a real beginning--a
breathing spell--time in which to accomplish something really worth
while--independence--freedom from this tread-mill--"

"Stop!" cried Von Gerhard, sharply. Then, as I stared in surprise--"I
do ask your pardon. I was again rude, nicht wahr? But in me there is a
queer vein of German superstition that disapproves of air castles. Sich
einbilden, we call it."

The lights of the bay pavilion twinkled just ahead. The green car poked
its nose up the path between rows of empty machines. At last it drew up,
panting, before a vacant space between an imposing, scarlet touring car
and a smart, cream-colored runabout. We left it there and walked up the
light-flooded path.

Inside the great, barn-like structure that did duty as pavilion glasses
clinked, chairs scraped on the wooden floor; a burst of music followed
a sharp fusillade of applause. Through the open doorway could be seen a
company of Tyrolese singers in picturesque costumes of scarlet and green
and black. The scene was very noisy, and very bright, and very German.

"Not in there, eh?" said Von Gerhard, as though divining my wish. "It is
too brightly lighted, and too noisy. We will find a table out here under
the trees, where the music is softened by the distance, and our eyes are
not offended by the ugliness of the singers. But inexcusably ugly they
are, these Tyrolese women."

We found a table within the glow of the pavilion's lights, but still
so near the lake that we could hear the water lapping the shore. A
cadaverous, sand