The mid-day dinner at Pupp’s was the time to see the Carlsbad world, and the Marches had the habit of sitting long at table to watch it.

There was one family in whom they fancied a sort of literary quality, as if they had come out of some pleasant German story, but they never knew anything about them.  The father by his dress must have been a Protestant clergyman; the mother had been a beauty and was still very handsome; the daughter was good-looking, and of a good-breeding which was both girlish and ladylike.  They commended themselves by always taking the table d’hote dinner, as the Marches did, and eating through from the soup and the rank fresh-water fish to the sweet, upon the same principle:  the husband ate all the compote and gave the others his dessert, which was not good for him.  A young girl of a different fascination remained as much a mystery.  She was small and of an extreme tenuity, which became more bewildering as she advanced through her meal, especially at supper, which she made of a long cucumber pickle, a Frankfort sausage of twice the pickle’s length, and a towering goblet of beer; in her lap she held a shivering little hound; she was in the decorous keeping of an elderly maid, and had every effect of being a gracious Fräulein.  A curious contrast to her Teutonic voracity was the temperance of a young Latin swell, imaginably from Trieste, who sat long over his small coffee and cigarette, and tranquilly mused upon the pages of an Italian newspaper.  At another table there was a very noisy lady, short and fat, in flowing draperies of white, who commanded a sallow family of South-Americans, and loudly harangued them in South-American Spanish; she flared out in a picture which nowhere lacked strong effects; and in her background lurked a mysterious black face and figure, ironically subservient to the old man, the mild boy, and the pretty young girl in the middle distance of the family group.

Amidst the shows of a hardened worldliness there were touching glimpses of domesticity and heart:  a young bride fed her husband soup from her own plate with her spoon, unabashed by the publicity; a mother and her two pretty daughters hung about a handsome officer, who must have been newly betrothed to one of the girls; and, the whole family showed a helpless fondness for him, which he did not despise, though he held it in check; the girls dressed alike, and seemed to have for their whole change of costume a difference from time to time in the color of their sleeves.  The Marches believed they had seen the growth of the romance which had eventuated so happily; and they saw other romances which did not in any wise eventuate.  Carlsbad was evidently one of the great marriage marts of middle Europe, where mothers brought their daughters to be admired, and everywhere the flower of life was blooming for the hand of love.  It blew by on all the promenades in dresses and hats as pretty as they could be bought or imagined; but it was chiefly at Pupp’s that it flourished.  For the most part it seemed to flourish in vain, and to be destined to be put by for another season to dream, bulblike, of the coming summer in the quiet of Moldavian and Transylvanian homes.

Perhaps it was oftener of fortunate effect than the spectators knew; but for their own pleasure they would not have had their pang for it less; and March objected to having a more explicit demand upon his sympathy.  “We could have managed,” he said, at the close of their dinner, as he looked compassionately round upon the parterre of young girls, “we could have managed with Burnamy and Miss Triscoe; but to have Mrs. Adding and Kenby launched upon us is too much.  Of course I like Kenby, and if the widow alone were concerned I would give him my blessing:  a wife more or a widow less is not going to disturb the equilibrium of the universe; but ­” He stopped, and then he went on:  “Men and women are well enough.  They complement each other very agreeably, and they have very good times together.  But why should they get in love? ­It is sure to make them uncomfortable to themselves and annoying to others.”  He broke off, and stared about him.  “My dear, this is really charming ­almost as charming as the Posthof.”  The crowd spread from the open vestibule of the hotel and the shelter of its branching pavilion roofs until it was dimmed in the obscurity of the low grove across the way in an ultimate depth where the musicians were giving the afternoon concert.  Between its two stationary divisions moved a current of promenaders, with some such effect as if the colors of a lovely garden should have liquefied and flowed in mingled rose and lilac, pink and yellow, and white and orange, and all the middle tints of modern millinery.  Above on one side were the agreeable bulks of architecture, in the buff and gray of Carlsbad; and far beyond on the other were the upland slopes, with villas and long curves of country roads, belted in with miles of wall.  “It would be about as offensive to have a love-interest that one personally knew about intruded here,” he said, “as to have a two-spanner carriage driven through this crowd.  It ought to be forbidden by the municipality.”

Mrs. March listened with her ears, but not with her eyes, and she answered:  “See that handsome young Greek priest!  Isn’t he an archimandrite?  The portier said he was.”

“Then let him pass for an archimandrite.  Now,” he recurred to his grievance again, dreamily, “I have got to take Papa Triscoe in hand, and poison his mind against Burnamy, and I shall have to instil a few drops of venomous suspicion against Kenby into the heart of poor little Rose Adding.  Oh;” he broke out, “they will spoil everything.  They’ll be with us morning, noon, and night,” and he went on to work the joke of repining at his lot.  The worst thing, he said, would be the lovers’ pretence of being interested in something besides themselves, which they were no more capable of than so many lunatics.  How could they care for pretty girls playing tennis on an upland level, in the waning afternoon?  Or a cartful of peasant women stopping to cross themselves at a way-side shrine?  Or a whistling boy with holes in his trousers pausing from some wayside raspberries to touch his hat and say good-morning?  Or those preposterous maidens sprinkling linen on the grass from watering-pots while the skies were full of rain?  Or that blacksmith shop where Peter the Great made a horseshoe.  Or the monument of the young warrior-poet Koerner, with a gentle-looking girl and her mother reading and knitting on a bench before it?  These simple pleasures sufficed them, but what could lovers really care for them?  A peasant girl flung down on the grassy road-side, fast asleep, while her yoke-fellow, the gray old dog, lay in his harness near her with one drowsy eye half open for her and the other for the contents of their cart; a boy chasing a red squirrel in the old upper town beyond the Tepl, and enlisting the interest of all the neighbors; the negro door-keeper at the Golden Shield who ought to have spoken our Southern English, but who spoke bad German and was from Cairo; the sweet afternoon stillness in the woods; the good German mothers crocheting at the Posthof concerts.  Burnamy as a young poet might hate felt the precious quality of these things, if his senses had not been holden by Miss Triscoe; and she might have felt it if only he had done so.  But as it was it would be lost upon their preoccupation; with Mrs. Adding and Kenby it would be hopeless.

A day or two after Mrs:  March had met Mrs. Adding, she went with her husband to revere a certain magnificent blackamoor whom he had discovered at the entrance of one of the aristocratic hotels on the Schlossberg, where he performed the function of a kind of caryatid, and looked, in the black of his skin and the white of his flowing costume, like a colossal figure carved in ebony and ivory.  They took a roundabout way through a street entirely of villa-pensions; every house in Carlsbad but one is a pension if it is not n hotel; but these were of a sort of sentimental prettiness; with each a little garden before it, and a bower with an iron table in it for breakfasting and supping out-doors; and he said that they would be the very places for bridal couples who wished to spend the honey-moon in getting well of the wedding surfeit.  She denounced him for saying such a thing as that, and for his inconsistency in complaining of lovers while he was willing to think of young married people.  He contended that there was a great difference in the sort of demand that young married people made upon the interest of witnesses, and that they were at least on their way to sanity; and before they agreed, they had come to the hotel with the blackamoor at the door.  While they lingered, sharing the splendid creature’s hospitable pleasure in the spectacle he formed, they were aware of a carriage with liveried coachman and footman at the steps of the hotel; the liveries were very quiet and distinguished, and they learned that the equipage was waiting for the Prince of Coburg, or the Princess of Montenegro, or Prince Henry of Prussia; there were differing opinions among the twenty or thirty bystanders.  Mrs. March said she did not care which it was; and she was patient of the denouement, which began to postpone itself with delicate delays.  After repeated agitations at the door among portiers, proprietors, and waiters, whose fluttered spirits imparted their thrill to the spectators, while the coachman and footman remained sculpturesquely impassive in their places, the carriage moved aside and let an energetic American lady and her family drive up to the steps.  The hotel people paid her a tempered devotion, but she marred the effect by rushing out and sitting on a balcony to wait for the delaying royalties.  There began to be more promises of their early appearance; a footman got down and placed himself at the carriage door; the coachman stiffened himself on his box; then he relaxed; the footman drooped, and even wandered aside.  There came a moment when at some signal the carriage drove quite away from the portal and waited near the gate of the stableyard; it drove back, and the spectators redoubled their attention.  Nothing happened, and some of them dropped off.  At last an indescribable significance expressed itself in the official group at the door; a man in a high hat and dresscoat hurried out; a footman hurried to meet him; they spoke inaudibly together.  The footman mounted to his place; the coachman gathered up his reins and drove rapidly out of the hotel-yard, down the street, round the corner, out of sight.  The man in the tall hat and dress-coat went in; the official group at the threshold dissolved; the statue in ivory and ebony resumed its place; evidently the Hoheit of Coburg, or Montenegro, or Prussia, was not going to take the air.

“My dear, this is humiliating.”

“Not at all!  I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.  Think how near we came to seeing them!”

“I shouldn’t feel so shabby if we had seen them.  But to hang round here in this plebeian abeyance, and then to be defeated and defrauded at last!  I wonder how long this sort of thing is going on?”

“What thing?”

“This base subjection of the imagination to the Tom Foolery of the Ages.”

“I don’t know what you mean.  I’m sure it’s very natural to want to see a Prince.”

“Only too natural.  It’s so deeply founded in nature that after denying royalty by word and deed for a hundred years, we Americans are hungrier for it than anybody else.  Perhaps we may come back to it!”

“Nonsense!”

They looked up at the Austrian flag on the tower of the hotel, languidly curling and uncurling in the bland evening air, as it had over a thousand years of stupid and selfish monarchy, while all the generous republics of the Middle Ages had perished, and the commonwealths of later times had passed like fever dreams.  That dull, inglorious empire had antedated or outlived Venice and Genoa, Florence and Siena, the England of Cromwell, the Holland of the Stadtholders, and the France of many revolutions, and all the fleeting democracies which sprang from these.

March began to ask himself how his curiosity differed from that of the Europeans about him; then he became aware that these had detached themselves, and left him exposed to the presence of a fellow countryman.  It was Otterson, with Mrs. Otterson; he turned upon March with hilarious recognition.  “Hello!  Most of the Americans in Carlsbad seem to be hanging round here for a sight of these kings.  Well, we don’t have a great many of ’em, and it’s natural we shouldn’t want to miss any.  But now, you Eastern fellows, you go to Europe every summer, and yet you don’t seem to get enough of ’em.  Think it’s human nature, or did it get so ground into us in the old times that we can’t get it out, no difference what we say?”

“That’s very much what I’ve been asking myself,” said March.  “Perhaps it’s any kind of show.  We’d wait nearly as long for the President to come out, wouldn’t we?”

“I reckon we would.  But we wouldn’t for his nephew, or his second cousin.”

“Well, they wouldn’t be in the way of the succession.”

“I guess you’re right.”  The Iowan seemed better satisfied with March’s philosophy than March felt himself, and he could not forbear adding: 

“But I don’t, deny that we should wait for the President because he’s a kind of king too.  I don’t know that we shall ever get over wanting to see kings of some kind.  Or at least my wife won’t.  May I present you to Mrs. March?”

“Happy to meet you, Mrs. March,” said the Iowan.  “Introduce you to Mrs. Otterson.  I’m the fool in my family, and I know just how you feel about a chance like this.  I don’t mean that you’re ­”

They all laughed at the hopeless case, and Mrs. March said, with one of her unexpected likings:  “I understand, Mr. Otterson.  And I would rather be our kind of fool than the kind that pretends not to care for the sight of a king.”

“Like you and me, Mrs. Otterson,” said March.

“Indeed, indeed,” said the lady, “I’d like to see a king too, if it didn’t take all night.  Good-evening,” she said, turning her husband about with her, as if she suspected a purpose of patronage in Mrs. March, and was not going to have it.

Otterson looked over his shoulder to explain, despairingly:  “The trouble with me is that when I do get a chance to talk English, there’s such a flow of language it carries me away, and I don’t know just where I’m landing.”