"And after you leave Germany?"
"After Germany—home!"
He was not a particularly handsome lad, but he had beautiful eyes, and at the word home they took on such a strange brilliance that I gathered up my parasol and books in wondering silence.
"I suppose," he said, soberly, "that you will not be at the Protestant church on Sunday?"
"Probably I shall."
"I don't see many people from America," he went on, turning his head so far away that I could hardly hear what he said. "There isn't anybody here who cares to talk about it. My mother, of course, is too busy," he added, with dignity.
"Au revoir, then," I said, with a smile.
He stood looking quietly after me, and when I got far up the river-bank I turned around. He was adjusting a slight difference between the footman and the goat; then, followed by the man, he disappeared up one of the quaint old streets leading into the heart of the city.
Close beside me a little old peasant woman, gathering sticks, uncurled her stooping figure. "Bon jour, mademoiselle! You have been talking to the American boy."
"Oui, madame."