"Am I correct in thinking," said Madame von Bingen to Tristan Tzara as he led her along corridor after corridor, several of which seemed to be peopled by the same passengers she had already passed several coaches earlier, her speaking voice every bit as musical as Tristan was sure her singing voice must be, for though he had never been to the Opera House, even he had heard praise for the vocal talents of the star performer in it's company, "that Kermit Hackensack is travelling with you?" and he nodded, adding: "it's actually we who are accompanying him and his Bureau," the young man replied, "he's the one who booked the train, and when he told Jakob, we voted to make the move too," and this news seemed to please the singer, "do you know him?" as Tristan, "oh, certainly," Hildegard smiled, "intimately," and then said: "and I always enjoy his feuilleton, those satirical dehortations he writes, under the name of Janus, where the gist is along the lines of the sun today being too unnaturally apaugasmatic for Austrians, Hungarians, Romanians and Bulgarians, even Serbians, Bosnians, Albanians and Montenegrins – and then realises that the fundamental difference between those from Montenegro and the others is the simple lack of Vitamin A in their nutrition, and that being descended from the first Negroes to arrive in the Balkans, they are much better adapted to live in a hot, sunny climate than we pale-faced northerners: it's all sheer nonsense, of course, but he manages to write as if he were an expert in whatever subject matter he chooses, in fact, I know several people who actually believe what he writes and will quote his articles, without the faintest irony – it's such. . . . ." she broke off and stopped, and Tristan had gone a few further yards before looking round to see her staring into a compartment, so he hurried back to her: "is something wrong, Madame," he asked, concerned that she may be unwell, but she just flapped a hand, then caught his wrist and pulled him closer, so that she could whisper in his ear: "that rather florid gentleman, with the walrus moustache," and Tristan nodded, "yes, that's Grigor, the Doorman," and Hildegard hissed: "this is the third time we have come by this compartment, he and those other gentlemen are playing cards as they were twice before, what is going on?" and Tristan apologised, "I believe we must have slipped into the closed circle and are just going round and round, quick, come this way, there's a shortcut back," and he pushed open a door and pulled her into what she saw at once was a public lavatory: "if you dare." she said sternly, her voice icy, "I shall scream!" but he raised his hands in submission, "no, Madame, just come through here," and the wall beside the wash basin proved to be a sliding door and when they had stepped through it, Hildegard saw at once that this was a dining car, which they had not passed through before; she sat where Tristan suggested and he ordered brandy and coffee for them both and she said, firmly and with a directness which reduced him to putty in her hands: "explain! from A to Z! the whole caboodle!"