Monseigneur; he must have it removed. Bull, stop growling; you
are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress."

Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the
desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this
girl who could say "must" to the formidable prelate? His quick
eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarrassment. Indeed,
she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty
disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it seemed to him, as
she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be
standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when
he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought.
Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy
petals. Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose
tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep. Presently a
color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks.
Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own
cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.

"Pardon my rudeness," he said.

"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.

"It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg
for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with
an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.

"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to
imprint it on her memory. "You are English?"