speak lightly of the League of Nations. They might have wiped us off the map altogether."
"Ah, the good old days," sighed Innsbruck. "The Grand Duke with his Rolls Royce and his beautiful ladies and the laughter on the terrace. There was some satisfaction in serving in an elegant and vicious household like that. There was no talk then of economies and republics and debts. The bourgeois virtues are so dull."
There was a tap at the door and Karl the wine-steward came in. He was a grizzled little fellow in a green felt apron stained by years of grubbing among cobwebs and mildew.
"Your pardon, Herr Romsteck," he said, "but here is the cellar inventory you wanted. We are a bit short in the Burgundies; when the envoys from Geneva were here they absolutely demolished the 1911 Chambertin and Hospice de Beaune. The Musigny also is very low."
"The gentlemen from the League," observed Romsteck, "have a very genteel taste in wine."
"Except the Americans. When the American
