And the ladies, even though aware of the mechanico-cosmetical origin of this conquering-hero air, were foolish enough to be carried away by it. There was Frau Schönfeld, a red-haired, red-eyed patient from Berlin. In the salon she looked thirstily at a long-legged, sunken-chested gallant, who described himself on his visiting-card as “

Aviateur diplomé et Enseigne de la Marine allemande .” He was fitted out with the pneumothorax and wore “smoking” at the midday meal but not in the evening, saying this was their custom in the navy. “My God,” breathed Frau Schönfeld at him, “what a tan this demon has⁠—he gets it from the helio⁠—it makes him look like a hunter of eagles!” “Just wait, nixie!” he whispered in her ear, in the lift, “I’ll make you pay for looking at me like that!” It made gooseflesh and shivers run over her. And along the balconies, past the glass partitions, the demon eagle-hunter found his way to the nixie.