Good-day, dear Baron.

[_Carelessly to the_ YOUNG MAN _and the_ COUNTESS, _pointing to the screen._]

Finish over there.

[_To_ OBENAUS.]

My tailor.

OBENAUS.

Ah?

THE DUKE.

My mother's fitter.

OBENAUS.

Yes?

THE DUKE.

Will they disturb you?

OBENAUS.

[_Who has seated himself behind the table with_ DIETRICHSTEIN.]

Not at all, my Lord.

THE DUKE.

[_Who sits facing them, sharpening a pencil._]

I'm all attention. Let me sharpen this To note a date, or jot down an idea.

OBENAUS.

We'll take our work up where we last left off.

Eighteen hundred and five, I think?

THE DUKE.

[_Busy with his pencil._] Exactly.

OBENAUS.

In eighteen hundred and six--

THE DUKE.

Did no event Make that year memorable?

OBENAUS.

Which, my Lord?

THE DUKE.

[_Blowing the dust off the pencil._]

Why, eighteen hundred and five.

OBENAUS.

I beg your pardon, I thought you meant--h'm--Destiny Was cruel to the righteous cause. We'll cast Only a fleeting glance at hapless hours.

When the philosopher with pensive gaze--

THE DUKE.

And so in eighteen five, sir, nothing happened?

OBENAUS.

A great event, my Lord! I had forgotten.

The restoration of the Calendar.

A little later, having challenged England, Spain--

THE DUKE.

[_Demurely._]

And the Emperor?

OBENAUS.

Which Emp--?

THE DUKE.

My father.

OBENAUS.

He--he--

THE DUKE.