"I do hope Starnberg is not such a great resort for artists as the other places in the Bavarian mountains, of which my cousins have told me."
He looked at her in amazement.
"You hope so, Fräulein? And what possible reason can you have for not wishing it to be such a place? Artists are, as a rule, among the most harmless of God's creatures, and can hardly be said to disfigure a fine region with their umbrellas and camp-stools."
"And yet, last evening, I made the acquaintance of one of these artists at the countess's below. The tone which he adopted--"
"Do you recollect his name?"
"No; but perhaps you know him--a young man in a violet velvet jacket."
Schnetz gave a loud laugh.
"Why do you laugh?"
"I beg a thousand pardons, Fräulein--it really is not a matter to be laughed at. This honest fellow--our secret poet--I know him down to the very folds in his historical velvet jacket. What, in the name of wonder, were the thorns that this Rosebud presented for you to scratch your delicate skin upon?"
"I must submit to let you think me a prudish fool, who takes offense at every light word, Herr von Schnetz," said she, with some asperity. "I do not care to repeat the conversation of your friend. If he is one of the most inoffensive of men, I would rather avoid a place where one is forced to meet people of his stamp at every step."