"Let us sit down," said Grover; and the swan-maiden, whose agitation probably forbade her to speak, silently accepted the invitation. "What a transformation love works in a woman," he reflected ecstatically; "who would recognize in this sweet, docile creature the rebellious and headstrong girl of three months ago? I have long wished to tell you," he continued aloud, seizing her hand and drawing her close up to him, "that my life would be barren as a desert without you. You have taught me by your sweet reserve, and your self-respecting coolness, first to esteem you highly, then to admire and at last to love you. Do not think even now that I take your consent for granted. I only hope that love, as strong and deep as mine, cannot fail to find some response. It is imperious, all-conquering; it fears no more resistance." There was obviously no occasion for such impassioned rhetoric. The swan-maiden had not the faintest idea of offering resistance. She slipped with a soft and charming suppleness into his embrace and received his ecstatic kisses without a murmur of protest. It was not until he made a movement to tear off her mask (whose depending fringe was a great inconvenience) that she suddenly recovered her senses: with a startled cry she stayed his hand, cast a shy glance about her, jumped up and ran as fast as her feet could carry her. If she had been a real fairy, she could not have made a more rapid and unexpected exit. Grover was utterly dumbfounded. He thought of the old legends about knights who had been loved by mermaids whose kiss was death and their embrace eternal damnation. An uncanny feeling crept over him. But a cheerful second thought soon came to comfort him. He had heard from the best authorities that women were enigmatical and incalculable creatures who were most apt to do what was least expected of them. They had a perfect encyclopedia of eccentricities, if the novelists were to be trusted, and it was not to be expected that his brief acquaintance with the sex should have sufficed to master it. This was a profitable train of thought and one well worth pursuing. Therefore, instead of pursuing his nymph, he leaned back against the wall and pondered. The nymph, in the meanwhile, after a hurried search below, ran to the dressing-room, where she flung herself weeping into the arms of the black domino. "What in Heaven's name is the matter, child?" inquired the latter. "Was he rude to you?" "Not at all," sobbed the nymph; "no-o-ot a-a-at all. Quite the co-o-on-tra-ry." "What then are you crying for?" asked the domino sympathetically. "He kissed me, mother; he kissed me," answered the nymph, weeping. "You ought not to have allowed him to do that," said the Frau Professorin, with mild reproach. "How could I help it, mother? He talked so beautifully to me. He proposed to me. And I forgot that I was Miss Jones. I was only myself--and--" A second flood of tears made the rest unintelligible.