Half overcome by the torrent of words, Nora produced the document which she supposed answered to the name of Gepäckschein. In the interval, whilst Fräulein Müller was apparently pouring volumes of mingled explanation and abuse over the head of an equally flustered porter, Nora had opportunity to study her rescuer. Fräulein Müller, she imagined, was well over the fifties and, on account of her stoutness, looked her age, but her face was as lively as it was plain, and the rotund figure in its dowdy brown dress cut after the manner of a long-forgotten fashion seemed to be bubbling over with seething sprightliness. Nora had a quick eye, and her critical faculties, at home usually dormant, were on the alert. "How badly the Germans dress!" she thought. "What dreadful boots—and that dress! I suppose it is her best, and it was probably quite expensive. Whatever could have made any one choose a colour like that?" Her observations were cut short by her unconscious victim grasping her by the arm and hurrying her up and down dark flights of steps, the whole way continuing her explanations, peppered with gasps and exclamatory German outbreaks. "Ze portermans are ze stupidest race on ze earth," she panted, "but I haf told him—I haf his number—it is zirty-one—please try and remember, _liebes Kind_—zat he must your _Koffers_ bring at once. Ze Frau Baronin’s carriage is not big enoff to take more zan us two and your rugs. _Ach, je_! Ze many steps are not for one so short in ze breaths as I!" They were out of the station at last—Nora had delivered up her ticket with the feeling that the last link between her and home was gone—and were greeted by a simply dressed footman, who conducted them to a brougham promptly summed up by Nora as shabby. Fräulein Müller dropped back into the cushions with a sigh of satisfaction. "Now all is well," she said. "I shall drive wiz you to the Frau Baronin’s house and see you safe in. She ask me to fetch you, as I knew I could easy find you. _Ach, sie ist die Liebenswürdigkeit selber, die, Frau Baronin!_" "You are her great friend?" Nora suggested, seeking something to say. Fräulein Müller threw up her plump hands in the straining brown kid gloves and laughed. "Nee, nee, _liebes Kind_, how should zat be? I am Fräulein Müller—old Fräulein Müller—and she is the Baronin von Arnim." Perhaps Nora’s look showed that the all-apparent distinction was not clear, for her companion went on with a soft chuckle: "Zat is somezing you vill understand wiz ze time, my dear. Ze Baronin is von great person and I am von nobody. Zat is all. I am proud zat I haf brought a so nice English girl—and glad to haf been able to give ze daughter of my dear pupil so nice a place. I am sure you will be very happy."