er unconsciousness that
he, or his appearance, or behavior, or anything about him, could
possibly interest them. And yet he was a man eminently calculated to
attract women, only he never to this day has been got to believe so, and
will often deprecate his poor power of entertaining ladies.

I often watched this little by-play of behavior from and to the fairer
sex with silent amusement, more particularly when Eugen and I made
shopping expeditious for Sigmund's benefit. We once went to buy
stockings--winter stockings for him; it was a large miscellaneous and
smallware shop, full of young women behind the counters and ladies of
all ages before them.

We found ourselves in the awful position of being the only male
creatures in the place. Happy in my insignificance and plainness, I
survived the glances that were thrown upon us; I did not wonder that
they fell upon my companions. Eugen consulted a little piece of paper on
which Frau Schmidt had written down what we were to ask for, and,
marching straight up to a disengaged shop-woman, requested to be shown
colored woolen stockings.

"For yourself, _mein Herr_?" she inquired, with a fascinating smile.

"No, thank you; for my little boy," says Eugen, politely, glancing
deferentially round at the piles of wool and packets of hosen around.

"Ah, so! For the young gentleman? _Bitte, meine Herren_, be seated." And
she gracefully pushes chairs for us; on one of which I, unable to resist
so much affability, sit down.

Eugen remains standing; and Sigmund, desirous of having a voice in the
matter, mounts upon his stool, kneels upon it, and leans his elbows on
the counter.

The affable young woman returns, and with a glance at Eugen that speaks
of worlds beyond colored stockings, proceeds to untie a packet and
display her wares. He turns them over. Clearly he does not like them,
and does not understand them. They are striped; some are striped
latitudinally, others longitudinally. Eugen turns them over, and the
young woman murmurs that they are of the best quality.

"Are they?" says he, and his eyes roam round the shop. "Well, Sigmund,
wilt thou have legs like a stork, as these long stripes will inevitably
make them, or wilt thou have legs like a zebra's back?"

"I should like legs like a little boy, please," is Sigmund's modest
expression of a reasonable desire.

Eugen surveys them.

"_Von der besten Qualitaet_," repeats the young woman, impressively.

"Have you no blue