And there is no need for either. If you can’t find better motives, you must play on his foibles. After all, as you have yourself often told me, he has a passion for building.”

“That is true enough,” replied the countess, “and this castle is living proof of it, for it was hardly necessary; rebuilding the other would have been quite sufficient. But however much he likes building, he still has his own preferences and what I’m planning to do is not likely to appeal to him. I am quite sure that he would rather build a badminton court or one of those fashionable roller-skating rinks or anything rather than a building connected with the Church. And as for building a vault, well, he hates the idea of death and he always wants to postpone what the Scriptures call so beautifully ‘setting your house in order.’”

“I know,” said Schwarzkoppen. “But you ought not to forget that all his likeable qualities as well depend on just such weaknesses.”

“His likeable qualities,” she repeated. “Yes, he has plenty of those, almost too many, if you can ever have too many likeable qualities. And he would certainly be an ideal husband—if he had any ideals at all of his own. Forgive my play on words, but I cannot help it, because it is the truth and I must say it again, he thinks only of the present and never of the future. He refuses to face anything that might remind him of it. Ever since Estrid’s funeral he has not once been back to the vault. That is why he doesn’t even realize that it is completely dilapidated, although it is, and a new vault will have to be built. I say ‘have to be,’ and if I did not make every effort to avoid personal or offensive remarks, I would point out to him that it’s not a question of fearing that he might be the first, that I should like to be …”

Schwarzkoppen tried to interrupt, but Christine paid no attention and went on: “I want to be the first; but I insist, for my part, that my last resting-place must be one that I like and not a crumbling and tumble-down …. But there’s no point in surmising what I would or would not say. For the moment I’m more interested in showing you some water-colour sketches of my design which Fräulein Dobschütz recently did for me, at my request. She is so good at drawing. It is a small covered forecourt with Gothic arches and the paved floor forms the roof of the vault. What I think most important, although this little sketch doesn’t, of course, show it properly, is the paintings to decorate the walls and ceiling. The sidewalls with a Dance of Death, possibly in the style of the one in Lübeck, and angels and palm-leaves on the curved surface of the groins. The lovelier the better. And if we can’t afford the best artists, then we shall have to be content with ones who are less good: after all, it is the thought that counts. Dear Julie, excuse my troubling you but will you please fetch us that sheet of paper …”

Meanwhile, Holk and Arne had continued their stroll and eventually reached the gravel path which wound its way to the near-by steps of the terrace leading down to the sea. Here there was a bower of cypresses and bay-trees with a marble seat in front and the two men sat down to smoke their cigars in peace, something which the countess did not really allow indoors, although she never forbade it. Surprisingly enough, their conversation was still about the amazing veterinary surgeon, which can only be explained by the fact that Holk, in addition to his love of building, possessed a passion for fine cattle. He was not a great farming man like his brother-in-law and, indeed, made a point of not being one; but he was fond of his cattle, almost as a sort of hobby, and enjoyed seeing them admired and telling stories of fabulous yields of milk. For this reason, the new veterinary surgeon was an important person for him, but he was continually being assailed by doubts as to the latter’s homoeopathic methods. Arne was reassuring him: the most interesting thing was, he said, not that the new man was making successful cures—others were able to do that—but how and with what methods he was achieving such cures. It all amounted to nothing more nor less than the final triumph of a new principle and, through the treatment of animals, the success of homoeopathy had at last been proved beyond all doubt. Until now, all the old quacks had always been able to talk of the power of the imagination, meaning, of course, that it was not the minute doses themselves that were effecting the cure; but, thank God, a Schleswig cow could hardly be accused of possessing any imagination and if she were cured, it was by the drugs and not by faith.