“I wouldn’t have those,” says she, and I remark her face.
I have seen her often before—moreover, I have seen her look very earnestly at Eugen. I learned later that her name was Anna Sartorius. Ere she can finish, the shop-woman with wreathed smiles still lingering about her face, returns and produces stockings—fine, blue-ribbed stockings, such as the children of rich English parents wear. Their fineness, and the smooth quality of the wool, and the good shape appear to soothe Eugen’s feelings. He pushes away his heap of striped ones, which look still coarser and commoner now, observing hopefully and cheerily:
“Ja wohl! That is more what I mean.” (The poor dear fellow had meant nothing, but he knew what he wanted when he saw it.) “These look more like thy legs, Sigmund, nicht wahr? I’ll take—”
I dug him violently in the ribs.
“Hold on, Eugen! How much do they cost the pair, Fräulein?”
“Two thalers twenty-five; the very best quality,” she says, with a ravishing smile.
“There! eight shillings a pair!” say I. “It is ridiculous.”
“Eight shillings!” he repeats, ruefully. “That is too much.”
“They are real English, mein Herr,” she says, feelingly.