These words were full of a plaintive magnanimity which made mistrust seem cruel.  How much better I might play providence over Pickering’s experiments with life if I could engage the fine instincts of this charming woman on the providential side!  Pickering’s secret was, of course, his engagement to Miss Vernor; it was natural enough that he should have been unable to bring himself to talk of it to Madame Blumenthal.  The simple sweetness of this young girl’s face had not faded from my memory; I could not rid myself of the suspicion that in going further Pickering might fare much worse.  Madame Blumenthal’s professions seemed a virtual promise to agree with me, and, after some hesitation, I said that my friend had, in fact, a substantial secret, and that perhaps I might do him a good turn by putting her in possession of it.  In as few words as possible I told her that Pickering stood pledged by filial piety to marry a young lady at Smyrna.  She listened intently to my story; when I had finished it there was a faint flush of excitement in each of her cheeks.  She broke out into a dozen exclamations of admiration and compassion.  “What a wonderful tale—­what a romantic situation!  No wonder poor Mr. Pickering seemed restless and unsatisfied; no wonder he wished to put off the day of submission.  And the poor little girl at Smyrna, waiting there for the young Western prince like the heroine of an Eastern tale!  She would give the world to see her photograph; did I think Mr. Pickering would show it to her?  But never fear; she would ask nothing indiscreet!  Yes, it was a marvellous story, and if she had invented it herself, people would have said it was absurdly improbable.”  She left her seat and took several turns about the room, smiling to herself, and uttering little German cries of wonderment.  Suddenly she stopped before the piano and broke into a little laugh; the next moment she buried her face in the great bouquet of roses.  It was time I should go, but I was indisposed to leave her without obtaining some definite assurance that, as far as pity was concerned, she pitied the young girl at Smyrna more than the young man at Homburg.

“Of course you know what I wished in telling you this,” I said, rising.  “She is evidently a charming creature, and the best thing he can do is to marry her.  I wished to interest you in that view of it.”

She had taken one of the roses from the vase and was arranging it in the front of her dress.  Suddenly, looking up, “Leave it to me, leave it to me!” she cried.  “I am interested!” And with her little blue-gemmed hand she tapped her forehead.  “I am deeply interested!”