“You bet,” said Hoffman with charming decision.
“I WHAT?”
“You ARE, you know, and that's good enough for me, but I don't even know your name.”
She laughed again, and after a pause, said: “Elsbeth.”
“But I couldn't call you by your first name on our first meeting, you know.”
“Then you Americans are really so very formal—eh?” she said slyly, looking at her imprisoned hand.
“Well, yes,” returned Hoffman, disengaging it. “I suppose we are respectful, or mean to be. But whom am I to inquire for? To write to?”
“You are neither to write nor inquire.”
“What?” She had moved in her seat so as to half-face him with eyes in which curiosity, mischief, and a certain seriousness alternated, but for the first time seemed conscious of his hand, and accented her words with a slight pressure.
“You are to return to your hotel presently, and say to your landlord: 'Pack up my luggage. I have finished with this old town and my ancestors, and the Grand Duke, whom I do not care to see, and I shall leave Alstadt tomorrow!'”