“Ah, Herr is an American?  I like Americans,” archly.  “They are so liberal.”

I laughed, but I did not tell her why.  All foreigners have a great love of Americans—­“They are so liberal.”

“So you find Americans liberal?  Is it with money or with compliments?”

Said Gretchen:  “The one when they haven’t the other.”

A very bright barmaid, thought I.

Then I said:  “Is this your home?”

“Yes,” said Gretchen.  “I was born here and I have tended the roses for ever so long.”

“I have heard of Gretchen of the steins, but I never before heard of a Gretchen of the roses.”

“Herr must have a large store of compliments on hand to begin this early.”

“It is a part of my capital,” said I.  “Once in Switzerland I complimented an innkeeper, and when my bill was presented I found that all extras had been crossed off.”

Gretchen laughed.  It was a low laugh, a laugh which appeared to me as having been aroused not at what I had said, but at something which had recurred to her.  I wanted to hear it again.

So I said:  “I suppose you have a stein here from which the King has drunk; all taverns and inns have them.”

Gretchen only smiled, but the smile was worth something.

“No; the King has never been within five miles of this inn.”

“So much the worse for the King.”

“And why that?”

“The King has missed seeing Gretchen.”

It was then Gretchen laughed.

“I have never heard compliments like Herr’s before.”

“Why, I have any amount of them.  I’ll drink half a litre to your health.”

She filled one of the old blue earthen steins.

“I haven’t seen your roses in the gardens, but I’ll drink to those in your cheeks,” said I, and I drew back the pewter lid.

“How long does Herr intend to stay?” asked Gretchen.

“To the day is the evil thereof.”

“Ah, one must be happy with nothing to do.”

“Then you have the ambition common to all; to sit around and let others wait upon you?”

“No, that is not my ambition.  I wish only to wait upon my own desires and not those of the—­the others.”

“It is all the same,” said I.  “Some must serve, others must be served.”

When I went upstairs to my room it was my belief that a week or so at the inn would not hang heavy on my hands.  I had forgotten for the moment the Princess, or that I was hunting for Hillars.  It is strange how a face may upset one’s plans.  Gretchen’s likeness to Phyllis, whom I loved, upset mine for many days to come.

As I gazed from my window the next morning I beheld the old innkeeper and Gretchen engaged in earnest conversation.  He appeared to be pleading, nay, entreating, while she merely shook her head and laughed.  Finally the old man lifted his hands to heaven and disappeared around the wing.  When I came down Gretchen was in the gardens culling roses.  She said they were for the table.