“Have you ever heard of the kissing cherries?” he asked.

She shook her head.  He explained.

“This bunch will do very well.”

He took one grape at the bottom in his teeth.  Gingerly Gretchen did the same.  Their lips met in a smothered laughter.  Then they tried it again.

And this Watteau picture met the gaze of two persons on the terrace below.  The empurpling face of one threatened an explosion, but the smiling face of the other restrained this vocal thunder.  The old head vintner kicked a stone savagely, and at this rattling noise Gretchen and her lover turned.  They beheld the steward, and peering over his shoulder the amused countenance of the Princess Hildegarde.

“You—­” began the steward, no longer able to contain himself.

“Patience, Hoffman!” warned her highness.  Then she laughed blithely.  It was such a charming picture, and never had she seen a handsomer pair of bucolic lovers.  A sudden pang drove the merriment from her face.  Ah, but she envied Gretchen!  For the peasant there was freedom, there was the chosen mate; but for the princess—­

“Your hat, scoundrel!” cried Hoffman.

The vintner snatched off his hat apologetically and swung it round on the tips of his fingers.

“Is this the way you work?”

“I have picked nine baskets.”

“You should have picked twelve.”

It interested her highness to note that this handsome young fellow was not afraid of the head vintner.  So this was Gretchen’s lover?  He was really handsome; there was nothing coarse about his features or figure.  And presently she realized that he was returning her scrutiny with interest.  He had never seen her highness at close range before, and he now saw that Gretchen was more beautiful only because he saw her through the eyes of a lover.

The pause was broken by Gretchen.

“Pardon, Highness!”

“For what, Gretchen?”

“For not having seen your approach.”

“That was my fault, not yours.  When is the wedding?”

“After the vintage, Highness.”

Her highness then spoke to the bridegroom-elect.  “You will be good to her?”

“Who could help it, your Highness?”

The pronoun struck her oddly, for peasants as a usual thing never used it in addressing the nobility.

“Well, on the day of the wedding I will stand sponsor to you both.  And good luck go with you.  Come, Hoffman; my horse will be restive and my men impatient.”

She passed down the aisle, and the head vintner followed, wagging his head.  He was not at all satisfied with that tableau.  He employed men to work; he wanted no love-affairs inside his vineyards.  As for her highness, she had come for the sole purpose of seeing Gretchen’s lover; and it occurred to her that the really desirable men were generally unencumbered by titles.

“He will discharge me,” said the young vintner gloomily.