"I wish they would never return," he said to the pretty Genevese as they promenaded in the garden arm in arm; "I wish they would capsize between Heligoland and the Downs, where it is deepest and we could live here, in clover, to the end of our lives. What do you think, little Margerite, would you like to be the wife of Albert Timm, Esquire, owner of Castle Grenwitz, etc.? Wouldn't it be famous? Then I would keep you a carriage and horses, and even a housekeeper, which you could plague as they plague you now." "I am content with little if I can it share with you." "Noble thought! But better is better, and--well, we'll see all that when we are married." "And you will marry me, really? Ah, I can it believe scarcely! Why should a man, _comme vous_, to whom the whole world is open, marry a poor girl who not even is handsome?" "That is my business. And besides, you are richer than I am. Three hundred dollars----" "Three hundred twenty-five dollars," said Mademoiselle Marguerite. "All the better--that is something to begin with. If I add my own fortune"--Mr. Timm felt in his pocket and produced a few coins--"we have three hundred and twenty-five dollars, seventeen silber-groschen and eightpence. That is quite a capital." "We shall buy for it a little house." "Of course." "I shall give lessons in French." "Of course." "And you will be industrious and work." "_Comme un forçat_--oh, it is going to be a charming life," and Mr. Timm seized the little Frenchwoman around the waist and waltzed her around in the bower in which they were chatting. "I must go in now, to give the servants their supper," said Marguerite, withdrawing herself. "Then run, you little monkey, and come back again as soon as you can," said Mr. Timm. He looked after her as she ran away. "Stupid little woman," he said; "really thinks I am going to marry her. What a fool I should be--for three hundred dollars! Formerly I lost as much at play in a night. It is grand, what these girls fancy; and yet this one is not as stupid as she looks, and seems to have studied the great Goethe, in spite of her horrible jargon, to some advantage: 'Yield to no thief, but with the ring on your finger.' Hm, hm! I shall have to buy her a wedding-ring, after all! The three hundred dollars would not be so bad! These abominations of creditors! Not even here they leave me alone." Mr. Timm felt in his breast pocket and drew from it several letters of suspicious appearance, which he carefully unfolded and perused, after having ensconced himself in the corner of the bench. His face, generally merry enough, grew darker and darker. "Upon my word," he growled, "these fellows are becoming insolent. If I could satisfy the roaring lions with a couple of hundreds they might be silent, at least for a while."