“Most undoubtedly! A handsome face is a good letter of recommendation.”
“Are you noble?” she asked, abruptly.
“I have no von before my name,” answered Hamilton, laughing.
“Are you not count or baron?”
“Neither.”
“So you are only Mr. Hameeltone?”
“Only Mr. Alfred Hamilton.”
He perceived that he had fallen deeply in her estimation, and—he fell in his own, a few minutes afterwards, by a fruitless attempt which he made to explain to her the nature of the English peerage, and which he ended by the assurance that had he been born in Germany, where every member of a family inherits the paternal title, he should undoubtedly have been a baron or a count. She did not understand him; and he was glad of it, for he felt keenly the absurdity of his oration, and the silly boast contained in the concluding remark. Where the noblesse is so extensive as in Germany, and where so many members of it are so extremely poor, one would naturally think it would fall in some degree into disrepute, or, at least, that it would be regarded with indifference. This is, however, by no means the case; and there is no doubt that, had her red-faced major been a count or baron, she would have willingly overlooked the other discrepancies. Even a von before his name would have been a consolation, when combined with the happiness of having had a countess for her mother. These were Hamilton’s thoughts during a pause in the conversation, and he partly continued to think aloud, when he asked—
“Was she handsome?”
“Who?”