“O! And you might have been drowned,” compassion lighting her beautiful eyes. “Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak. And it was that sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have it removed. Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress.”
Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this girl who could say “must” to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarrassment. Indeed, she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it seemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals. Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep. Presently a color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks. Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.
“Pardon my rudeness,” he said.
“What is your name, Monsieur,” she asked calmly.
“It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious,” with an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.
“Maurice Carewe,” slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it on her memory. “You are English?”
He said: “No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have possibly read about.”
Her teeth gleamed. “Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not appear so very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at your best. What is this—this Yankeeland like?”
“It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such a great country.”
“You are a patriot!” clapping her hands. “No other country is so fine and large and great as your own. But tell me, is it as large as Austria?”