“A pair of gloves. Just now, as I stood here, and you lay with your eyes shut, these dropped from the balcony overhead. Now amuse yourself by weaving a romance out of them and their owner.”
Amy seized them, and stepping inside the window, examined them by the candle.
“A gentleman’s gloves, scented with violets! Here’s a little hole fretted by a ring on the third finger. Bless me! here are the initials, ‘S. P.,’ stamped on the inside, with a coat of arms below. What a fop to get up his gloves in this style! They are exquisite, though. Such a delicate color, so little soiled, and so prettily ornamented! Handsome hands wore these. I’d like to see the man.”
Helen laughed at the girl’s interest, and was satisfied if any trifle amused her ennui.
“I will send them back by the kellner, and in that way we may discover their owner,” she said.
But Amy arrested her on the way to the door.
“I’ve a better plan; these waiters are so stupid you’ll get nothing out of them. Here’s the hotel book sent up for our names; let us look among the day’s arrivals and see who ‘S. P.’ is. He came to-day, I’m sure, for the man said the rooms above were just taken, so we could not have them.”
Opening the big book, Amy was soon intently poring over the long list of names, written in many hands and many languages.
“I’ve got it! Here he is—oh, Nell, he’s a baron! Isn’t that charming? ‘Sigismund von Palsdorf, Dresden.’ We must see him, for I know he’s handsome, if he wears such distracting gloves.”
“You’d better take them up yourself, then.”