"Some one out in the snow," suggested a mild young man with auburn hair and pale whiskers.
"But, my good friend, why not bring him in?" asked the puzzled German.
"Lost, pewhaps," replied the young man, puffing calmly.
"Lost, lost! but what may zat have to do wid ze door?"
"Anxious fwiends," replied the Englishman calmly—"excitable foweigners, I should say."
The German looked at him in a helpless way, scarcely certain whether, as a unit in that generic body known by the English under the name of foreigners, he ought to take notice of the implied slight. His indecision ended in a walk to the door of the room. It was clearly useless to regard the eccentricities of those proud islanders, he said to himself. If they would persist in looking down on other and worthier nationalities, why so they might; they would find out their mistake some day. So absorbed was the German in his mental soliloquy that in passing out from the room he left the unhappy door open, and curses not loud but deep followed him from the proud islander he had left behind. The German found out in the mean time that his sensitive nature had not betrayed him. That the outer door was open became evident to him at once by the blast of keen air which swept up the dimly-lit passage.
Two figures were standing in the doorway, faintly shown by the light of the little oil-lamp that hung over the entrance. One was a fair-haired child, wrapped from head to foot in a scarlet cloak, the other was the landlord of the hotel.
He was stooping over the child, his face very red in the extremity of his effort to make her understand that it was impossible for her to go out in the snow.
"Mademoiselle—not go—snow cold—mademoiselle be wander—lose—nicht finden—" he was saying spasmodically, holding the door shut, while she, with her small strength, was struggling to open it.
"But—we can no permit—" he began more fluently.