a sign of dismissal,
she moved a step backward toward the door. But he remained motionless
in the same spot.

"You know, Fraeulein," said he, "that an honest finder is entitled to a
suitable reward. Would you think me presumptuous, if I asked you to
answer a question?"

"What is it?"

"Whether you embroidered the bookmark yourself?"

"Why do you wish to know that?"

"From a certainly very indiscreet curiosity; because I should draw from
it all sorts of inferences about the character of the fair owner. You
know, Fraeulein, the style reveals the individual, and we must judge
those who do not write books by some piece of handiwork."

She looked at him quietly, as if she considered it beneath her dignity
even to let him perceive that his jesting tone annoyed her.

"This is not my work," she replied; "under other circumstances, I
should have been very indifferent to its loss, for it is not even
pretty. But it is a present from my youngest sister, who put it in my
hymn-book the day I was confirmed."

"Strange!" he said, as if to himself.

"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, Fraeulein; 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? 'Pere 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, Fraeulein," 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 lo