“I do not know the young lady.”

“Of course not.  She has just returned from a Munich school.  Her brother Max was at the Lyndons’ great party, you remember?”

“I don’t remember, Louis.  In white cravats and black coats all men look alike.”

“But you will go?”

“If you wish it, yes.  There are some uncut reviews on the table:  amuse yourself while I dress.”

“Thanks, I have my cigar case.  I will take a smoke and think of Christine.”

For some reason quite beyond analysis, Franz did not like this speech.  He had never seen Christine Stromberg, but yet he half resented the careless use of her name.  It fell upon some soul consciousness like a familiar and personal name, and yet he vainly recalled every phase of his life for any clew to this familiarity.

He was a handsome fellow, with large, clearly-cut features and gray, thoughtful eyes.  In a conversation that interested him his face lighted up with a singularly beautiful animation, but usually it was as still and passionless as if the soul was away on a dream or a visit.  Even the regulation cravat and coat could not destroy his individuality, and Louis looked admiringly at him, and said, “You are still Franz Mueller.  No one is just like you.  I should think Cousin Christine will fall in love with you.”

Again Franz’s heart resented this speech.  It had been waiting for love for many a year, but he could not jest or speculate about it.  No one but the thoughtless, favored Louis ever dared to do it before Franz, and no one ever spoke lightly of women before him, for the worst of men are sensitive to the presence of a pure and lofty nature, and are generally willing to respect it.

Franz dreamed of women, but only of noble women, and even for those who fell below his ideal he had a thousand apologies and a world of pity.  It was strange that such a man should have lived thirty years, and never have really loved any mortal woman.  But his hour had come at last.  As soon as he saw Christine Stromberg he loved her.  A strange exaltation possessed him; his face was radiant; he talked and sung with a brilliancy that amazed even those most familiar with his rare exhibitions of such moods.  And Christine seemed fascinated by his beauty and wit.  The hours passed like moments; and when the girl stood watching him down the moon-lit avenue, she almost trembled to remember what questions Franz’s eyes had asked her and how strangely familiar the clasp of his hand and the sound of his voice had seemed to her.

“I wonder where I have seen him before,” she murmured—­“I wonder where it was?” and to this thought she slowly took off one by one her jewels, and brushed out her long black hair; nay, when she fell asleep, it was only to take it up again in dreams.

As for Franz, he was in far too ecstatic a mood to think of sleep.  “One has too few of such godlike moments to steep them in unconsciousness,” he said to himself.  And so he sat smoking and thinking and watching the waning moon sink lower and lower, until it was no longer night, but dawning day.