Then he stepped aside with a bow. Albrecht advanced through the room.
He had traversed the hundred yards from the Old Schloss hither in a closed carriage, with his huntsman on the box. He was in mufti, as almost always, wore a buttoned-up frock-coat with little satin lapels, and patent-leather boots on his small feet. Since his accession he had grown an imperial. His short fair hair was brushed back on each of his narrow, sunk temples. His gait was an awkward and yet indescribably distinguished strut, which gave his shoulder-blades a peculiar twist. He carried his head well back and stuck his short round under-lip out, sucking gently with it against the upper one.
The Princess went to the threshold to meet him. He disliked hand-kissing, so he simply held out his hand with a soft almost whispered greeting—his thin, cold hand which looked so sensitive and which he stretched out from his chest while keeping his forearm close to his body. Then he greeted his brother Klaus Heinrich in the same way, who had waited for him standing with heels close together in front of his chair—and said nothing further.
Ditlinde talked. "It's very nice of you to come, Albrecht. So you're feeling well? You look splendid. Philipp wishes me to tell you how sorry he is to have to be out this afternoon. Sit down, won't you, anywhere you like—here, for instance, opposite me. That chair's a pretty comfortable one, you sat in it last time. I've made tea for us in the meantime. You'll have your milk directly.…"
"Thanks," he said quietly. "I must beg pardon … I'm late. You know, the shorter the road … And then I have to lie down in the afternoon.… There's no one else coming?"
"No one else, Albrecht. At the most, Jettchen Isenschnibbe may look in for a bit, if you don't object.…"
"Oh?"
