into crime. No German-American will henceforth
ever have weight in the counsels of this country.
I do not mind confessing,” Mr. Hastings continued,
as he himself filled his guest’s glass and then
his own, “that I myself was at one time powerfully
attracted towards the Teuton cause. They are
a nation wonderful in science, wonderful in warfare,
with strong and admirable national characteristics.
Yet they are going to lose this war through sheer
lack of tact, for the want of that kindliness, that
generosity of temperament, which exists and makes
friends in nations as in individuals. The world
for Germany, you know, and hell for her enemies!...
But I am keeping you.”
Lutchester drank his wine and rose to his feet.
“Pamela is sitting on the rocks there,”
Mr. Hastings observed. “I think that she
wants to sail you over to Misery Island. We get
some unearthly meal there at ten o’clock and
come back by moonlight. It is a sort of torture
which we always inflict upon our guests. My wife
and I will follow in the launch.”
“To Misery Island!” Lutchester repeated.
His host smiled as he led the way to the piazza steps.
Pamela had already stepped into the boat, and with
the help of a boatman was adjusting the sail.
She waved her hand gaily and pointed to the level
stretch of placid water, still faintly brilliant in
the dying sunlight.
“You think that we shall reach Misery Island
before the tide turns?” she called out.
Lutchester stepped lightly into the boat and took
the place to which she pointed.
“I am content,” he said, “to take
my chance.”
