“You did well; he is a bad man, this photographer. Promise me you shall not sit for him.”
“How can I if I'm fired out of the place like this?” He added ruefully, “But I'd like to make him give himself away to me somehow.”
“He will not, and if he did he would deny it afterward. Do not go near him nor see him. Be careful that he does not photograph you with his instantaneous instrument when you are passing. Now you must go. I must see the Princess.”
“Let me go, too. I will explain it to her,” said Hoffman.
She stopped, looked at him keenly, and attempted to withdraw her hands. “Ah, then it IS so. It is the Princess you wish to see. You are curious—you, too; you wish to see this lady who is interested in you. I ought to have known it. You are all alike.”
He met her gaze with laughing frankness, accepting her outburst as a charming feminine weakness, half jealousy, half coquetry—but retained her hands.
“Nonsense,” he said. “I wish to see her that I may have the right to see you—that you shall not lose your place here through me; that I may come again.”
“You must never come here again.”
“Then you must come where I am. We will meet somewhere when you have an afternoon off. You shall show me the town—the houses of my ancestors—their tombs; possibly—if the Grand Duke rampages—the probable site of my own.”
She looked into his laughing eyes with her clear, stedfast, gravely questioning blue ones. “Do not you Americans know that it is not the fashion here, in Germany, for the young men and the young women to walk together—unless they are VERLOBT?”