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"Siggy Devinter, Baron Von Ragastein, out here, slaving for God knows what, drilling niggers to fight God knows whom, a political machine, I suppose, future Governor-General of German Africa, eh? You were always proud of your country, Devinter." "My country is a country to be proud of," was the solemn reply. "Well, you're in earnest, anyhow," Dominey continued, "in earnest about something.
"And why the devil did the doctor here tell me that your name was Von Ragastein?" "Because it happens to be the truth," was the somewhat measured reply. "Devinter is my family name, and the one by which I was known when in England. When I succeeded to the barony and estates at my uncle's death, however, I was compelled to also take the title." "Well, it's a small world!" Dominey exclaimed.
"She mistook me, curiously enough, for a man who used to be called my double at Oxford. Sigismund Devinter he was then, although I think he came into a title later on." "The Princess is quite a famous personage," Mr. Mangan remarked, "one of the richest widows in Europe. Her husband was killed in a duel some six or seven years ago."
Native servants beat the air around them with bamboo fans to keep off the insects, and the air was faint almost to noxiousness with the perfume of some sickly, exotic shrub. "Why, you're Devinter!" he exclaimed suddenly, "Sigismund Devinter! You were at Eton with me Horrock's House semi-final in the racquets." "And Magdalen afterwards, number five in the boat."
And I well, it's finished with me. It would have been finished last night if I hadn't seen the smoke from your fires, and I don't much care that's the trouble. I go blundering on. I suppose the end will come somehow, sometime Can I have some rum or whisky, Devinter I mean Von Ragastein Your Excellency or whatever I ought to say? You see those wreaths of mist down by the river?
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