"What is strange?"
"That book-marks, as well as books, have their destinies. From a hymn-book to Balzac!"
"Balzac? How to you know--"
"I beg your pardon, Fräulein; while I was waiting for you, I opened yonder book. Do you read French works from preference?"
Her eyes again rested on him with an expression of astonishment. This stranger, who was evidently only seeking some pretext to question or intrude himself upon her, was making her uncomfortable. But while meeting his calm gaze, she could find no words to dismiss him abruptly.
"Certainly," she replied. "My father accustomed me to French literature; he was a German it is true, but he lived a long time in Paris. His books recalled old memories."
"And do you like them? 'Père Goriot,' for instance?"
"He at least interests me. The French is so pure, and--the style is so good. To be sure, many things make me angry. Those heartless daughters, who so quietly permit their old father to ruin himself for them--it is horrible."
"Thank you, Fräulein," he eagerly replied. "I am glad that is your opinion. Good style, but bad music. Yet it is strange what a clever author can do. If we met such people in real life, I think we should refuse to associate with them. In books we submit to the most disagreeable society."
She seemed about to make some reply, but at that moment a chambermaid entered and said a few words in a low tone.