"There is a dreadful lump!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how sorry I am. Do—do you feel faint or—or—I mean, is it very painful?"
"Not now," he replied, replacing his cap and favouring her with his most engaging smile.
She smiled in response, betraying not the slightest sign of embarrassment. As a matter of fact, she was, if anything, somewhat too self-possessed.
"I remember falling down stairs once," she said, "and getting a stupendous bump on my forehead. But that was a great many years ago and I cried. How was I to know that it hurt you, Mr. Schmidt, when you neglected to cry?"
"Heroes never cry," said he. "It isn't considered first-class fiction, you know."
"Am I to regard you as a hero?"
"If you will be so kind, please."
She laughed outright at this. "I think I rather like you, Mr. Schmidt," she said, with unexpected candour.
"Oh, I fancy I'm not at all bad," said he, after a momentary stare of astonishment. "I am especially good in rough weather," he went on, trying to forget that he was a prince of the royal blood, a rather difficult matter when one stops to consider he was not in the habit of hearing people say that they rather liked him.
"Do your friends come from Vienna?" she inquired abruptly.