"Pardon my rudeness," he said.
"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.
"It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg
for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with
an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.
"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to
imprint it on her memory. "You are English?"
He said: "No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have
possibly read about."
Her teeth gleamed. "Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not
appear so very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at
your best. What is this--this Yankeeland like?"
"It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such
a great country."
"You are a patriot!" clapping her hands. "No other country is so
fine and large and great as your own. But tell me, is it as
large as Austria?"
"Austria? You will not be offended if I tell you?"
"No."
"Well," with fun in his eyes, "it is my opinion that I could
hide Austria in my country so thoroughly that nobody would ever
be able to find it again." He wondered how she would accept this
statement.
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