"And you?"
"Am I not yours already?"
She kissed me. Then she took the photo, and wrote across it: "Meinem Patrick, seine Mitzi"—"To my Patrick, his Mitzi."
Sergeant Young, who pursues the story of my Austrian love with the greatest interest asks me:
"Have you still got that photo?"
"I have."
"Would it not make a good frontispiece for your book if ever it is printed?"
"A frontispiece?"
Of course, I am greatly surprised at this question. When an author, even if he is a former composer and at present a Lance-Corporal, writes a book he does not think of such paltry things as the frontispiece. And then—it is quite bad enough to show to an inquisitive reader my heart, or whatever name you like to give to that organ.... But her face!... Mitzi's face?...