“That,” she said to herself, “is the Herr Professor—but I cannot remember his name.”
Marguerite was naturally a sociable person. Indeed, a woman usually stops an old and half-forgotten acquaintance, while men are accustomed to let such bygones go. She told the driver to turn round and drive back again. The man upon the bench had scarce looked up as she passed. He had the air of a German, which suggestion was accentuated by the solitude of his position and the poetic surroundings which he had selected. A German, be it recorded to his credit, has a keen sense of the beauties of nature, and would rather drink his beer before a fine outlook than in a comfortable chair indoors. When Marguerite returned, this man looked up again with the absorbed air of one repeating something in his mind. When he perceived that she was undoubtedly coming towards himself, he stood up and took off his hat. He was a small, square-built man, with upright hair turning to grey, and a quiet, thoughtful, clean-shaven face. His attitude, and indeed his person, dimly suggested some pictures that have been painted of the great Napoleon. His measuring glance—as if the eyes were weighing the face it looked upon—distinctly suggested his great prototype.
“You do not remember me, Herr Professor,” said Marguerite, holding out her hand with a frank laugh. “You have forgotten Dresden and the chemistry classes at Fräulein Weber's?”
“No, Fräulein; I remember those classes,” the professor answered, with a grave bow.
“And you remember the girl who dropped the sulphuric acid into the something of potassium? I nearly made a great discovery then, mein Herr.”
“You nearly made the greatest discovery of all, Fräulein. Yes, I remember now—Fräulein Wade.”
“Yes, I am Marguerite Wade,” she answered, looking at him with a little frown, “but I can't remember your name. You were always Herr Professor. And we never called anything by its right name in the chemistry classes, you know; that was part of the—er—trick. We called water H2 or something like that. We called you J.H.U, Herr Professor.”
“What does that mean, Fräulein?”
“Jolly hard up,” returned Marguerite, with a laugh which suddenly gave place, with a bewildering rapidity, to a confidential gravity. “You were poor then, mein Herr.”
“I have always been poor, Fräulein, until now.”