against my will; "you are wrong
there, and either you are purposely saying what is not true, or you have
not the feelings of a gentleman." His arm sprung a little aside as I
went on, amazed at my own boldness. "I did not show you your 'proper
place.' I did not show my own good sense. I showed my ignorance, vanity,
and surprise. If you do not know that, you are not what I take you
for--a gentleman."

"Perhaps not," said he, after a pause. "You certainly did not take me
for one then. Why should I be a gentleman? What makes you suppose I am
one?"

Questions which, however satisfactorily I might answer them to myself, I
could not well reply to in words. I felt that I had rushed upon a topic
which could not be explained, since he would not own himself offended. I
had made a fool of myself and gained nothing by it. While I was racking
my brain for some satisfactory closing remark, we turned a corner and
came into the Wehrhahn. A clock struck seven.

"_Gott im Himmel!_" he exclaimed. "Seven o'clock! The opera--_da geht's
schon an!_ Excuse me, Fraeulein, I must go. Ah, here is your house."

He took the coat gently from my shoulders, wished me _gute besserung_,
and ringing the bell, made me a profound bow, and either not noticing or
not choosing to notice the hand which I stretched out toward him, strode
off hastily toward the theater, leaving me cold, sick, and miserable, to
digest my humble pie with what appetite I might.

CHAPTER XXII.

CUI BONO?

Christmas morning. And how cheerfully I spent it! I tried first of all
to forget that it was Christmas, and only succeeded in impressing the
fact more forcibly and vividly upon my mind, and with it others; the
fact that I was alone especially predominating. And a German Christmas
is not the kind of thing to let a lonely person forget his loneliness
in; its very bustle and union serves to emphasize their solitude to
solitary people.

I had seen such quantities of Christmas-trees go past the day before.
One to every house in the neighborhood. One had even come here, and the
widow of the piano-tuner had hung it with lights and invited some
children to make merry for the feast of Weihnachten Abend.

Every one had a present except me. Every one had some one with whom to
spend their Christmas--except me. A little tiny Christmas-tree had gone
to the rooms whose windows faced mine. I had watched its arrival; for
once I had broken through my rule of not deliberately watchi