Every tone of their voices spoke of the warm stalls, the double feed of oats, and the great manger of sweet hay that awaited them.

Before going into the house Max gave to each mule a stroke of his hand in token of affection.
Surely this proud automaton of Hapsburg was growing lowly in his tastes.
In other words, nature had captured his heart and was driving out the inherited conventions of twenty generations.

Five months of contact with the world had wrought a greater cure than I had hoped five years would work.

I was making a man out of the flesh and blood of a Hapsburg.

God only knows when the like had happened before.
Max and I were conducted by a demure little Swiss maid to a large room on the third floor of the house, overlooking the Rhine.