He got up, stood before me, and struck the ground with his stick. "Good!"
he cried; "I wanted an occasion to break a rule--to leap a barrier. Here
it is. I stay!"

I made him a mock bow for his energy. "That's very fine," I said; "but
now, to put you in a proper mood for Madame Blumenthal's tea, we will go
and listen to the band play Schubert under the lindens." And we walked
back through the woods.

I went to see Pickering the next day, at his inn, and on knocking, as
directed, at his door, was surprised to hear the sound of a loud voice
within. My knock remained unnoticed, so I presently introduced myself. I
found no company, but I discovered my friend walking up and down the room
and apparently declaiming to himself from a little volume bound in white
vellum. He greeted me heartily, threw his book on the table, and said
that he was taking a German lesson.

"And who is your teacher?" I asked, glancing at the book.

He rather avoided meeting my eye, as he answered, after an instant's
delay, "Madame Blumenthal."

"Indeed! Has she written a grammar?"

"It's not a grammar; it's a tragedy." And he handed me the book.

I opened it, and beheld, in delicate type, with a very large margin, an
_Historisches Trauerspiel_ in five acts, entitled "Cleopatra." There
were a great many marginal corrections and annotations, apparently from