As she spoke, her companion half rose from the low chair where she lounged, and showed the pretty, piquant face of a young girl. She seemed in a half melancholy, half petulant mood; and traces of recent illness were visible in the languor of her movements and the pallor of her cheeks. “Yes, it is lovely; but I want adventures and romance of some sort to make it quite perfect. I don’t care what, if something would only happen.” “My dear, you are out of spirits and weary now, to-morrow you’ll be yourself again. Do not be ungrateful to uncle or unjust to yourself. Something pleasant will happen, I’ve no doubt. In fact, something _has_ happened that you may make a little romance out of, perhaps, for lack of a more thrilling adventure.” “What do you mean?” and Amy’s listless face brightened. “Speak low; there are balconies all about us, and we may be overheard,” said Helen, drawing nearer after an upward glance. “What is the beginning of a romance?” whispered Amy, eagerly. “A pair of gloves. Just now, as I stood here, and you lay with your eyes shut, these dropped from the balcony overhead. Now amuse yourself by weaving a romance out of them and their owner.” Amy seized them, and stepping inside the window, examined them by the candle. “A gentleman’s gloves, scented with violets! Here’s a little hole fretted by a ring on the third finger. Bless me! here are the initials, ‘S. P.,’ stamped on the inside, with a coat of arms below. What a fop to get up his gloves in this style! They are exquisite, though. Such a delicate color, so little soiled, and so prettily ornamented! Handsome hands wore these. I’d like to see the man.” Helen laughed at the girl’s interest, and was satisfied if any trifle amused her _ennui_. “I will send them back by the _kellner_, and in that way we may discover their owner,” she said. But Amy arrested her on the way to the door. “I’ve a better plan; these waiters are so stupid you’ll get nothing out of them. Here’s the hotel book sent up for our names; let us look among the day’s arrivals and see who ‘S. P.’ is. He came to-day, I’m sure, for the man said the rooms above were just taken, so we could not have them.” Opening the big book, Amy was soon intently poring over the long list of names, written in many hands and many languages. “I’ve got it! Here he is—oh, Nell, he’s a baron! Isn’t that charming? ‘Sigismund von Palsdorf, Dresden.’ We _must_ see him, for I know he’s handsome, if he wears such distracting gloves.” “You’d better take them up yourself, then.” “You know I can’t do that; but I shall ask the man a few questions, just to get an idea what sort of person the baron is. Then I shall change my mind and go down to dinner; shall look well about me, and if the baron is agreeable I shall make uncle return the gloves. He will thank us, and I can say I’ve known a real baron. That will be so nice when we go home. Now, don’t be duennaish and say I’m silly, but let me do as I like, and come and dress.”