In a fever of eager haste he bathed and attired himself for dinner, the imperturbable Hedrick assisting.  One query filled the American’s mind:  “I wonder if I am to sit beside her.”  And then:  “I have sat beside her!  There can never again be such delight!”

It was seven o’clock before his rather unusual toilet was completed.  “See if they have gone to the diner, Hedrick,” he said to the man-servant, who departed ceremoniously.

“I don’t know why he should be so damned polite,” observed Lorry, gazing wonderingly after him.  “I’m not a king.  That reminds me.  I must introduce myself.  She doesn’t know me from Adam.”

Hedrick returned and announced that they had just gone to the dining car and were awaiting him there.  He hurried to the diner and made his way to their table.  Uncle Caspar and his niece were facing him as he came up between the tables, and he saw, with no little regret, that he was to sit beside the aunt—­directly opposite the girl, however.  She smiled up at him as he stood before them, bowing.  He saw the expression of inquiry in those deep, liquid eyes of violet as their gaze wandered over his hair.

“Your head?  I see no bandage,” she said, reproachfully.

“There is a small plaster and that is all.  Only heroes may have dangerous wounds,” he said, laughingly.

“Is heroism in America measured by the number of stitches or the size of the plaster?” she asked, pointedly.  “In my country it is a joy, and not a calamity.  Wounds are the misfortune of valor.  Pray, be seated, Mr. Lorry is it not?” she said, pronouncing it quaintly.

He sat down rather suddenly on hearing her utter his name.  How had she learned it?  Not a soul on the train knew it, he was sure.

“I am Caspar Guggenslocker.  Permit me, Mr. Lorry, to present my wife and my niece, Miss Guggenslocker,” said the uncle, more gracefully than he had ever heard such a thing uttered before.

In a daze, stunned by the name,—­Guggenslocker, mystified over their acquaintance with his own when he had been foiled at every fair attempt to learn theirs, Lorry could only mumble his acknowledgments.  In all his life he had never lost command of himself as at this moment.  Guggenslocker!  He could feel the dank sweat of disappointment starting on his brow.  A butcher,—­a beer maker,—­a cobbler,—­a gardener,—­all synonyms of Guggenslocker.  A sausage manufacturer’s niece—­Miss Guggenslocker!  He tried to glance unconcernedly at her as he took up his napkin, but his eyes wavered helplessly.  She was looking serenely at him, yet he fancied he saw a shadow of mockery in her blue eyes.

“If you were a novel writer, Mr. Lorry, what manner of heroine would you choose?” she asked, with a smile so tantalizing that he understood instinctively why she was reviving a topic once abandoned.  His confusion was increased.  Her uncle and aunt were regarding him calmly,—­expectantly, he imagined.