“You forget you have changed all arrangements since you find that Mr. Hamilton is called Alfred,” said Baron Z—, laughing. “I only hope they are not loaded,” she said, carefully avoiding their contact, even with the hem of her garment, “for I have no fancy whatever to have my death announced in the newspapers, after the words, ‘dreadful accident!’” “They are not loaded,” said her husband, puffing strongly from his newly-lighted cigar, as they drove off. Hamilton was extremely amused at his comical situation, or rather at the events which had led to it, and after a few ineffectual efforts at suppression, he indulged in a fit of laughter, in which A. Z. joined; and it was some time before she could answer Baron Z—’s repeated inquiries as to the cause of their mirth. “I really don’t know, Herrmann, excepting that perhaps Mr. Hamilton is amused at finding himself in our company. By-the-by, you do not perhaps know that he speaks very good German.” “Like an Englishman, eh?” “His German will prove a better medium of communication than your English, perhaps; but,” she added quickly, changing the subject, and speaking German, “tell me, did you observe the new arrivals at the _table d’hôte_ to-day. Who are those two pretty girls?” “Rosenthal, or Rosenberg, I believe, is their name.” “A decided acquisition, so far as appearance is concerned. The one who sat beside Major Stultz at dinner is decidedly beautiful. Don’t you think so?” “Yes, and Major Stultz thinks so too, I should think; he made prodigious efforts to be agreeable, but could neither obtain a smile nor look during dinner. Had I been in his place, I should have tried the other, who is very nearly as pretty, and seems quite disposed to receive any attentions offered to her. I saw her looking towards our end of the table more than once, but could not ascertain whether she looked at me or your friend there.” “My friend seems rather disposed to appropriate the looks, if I may judge from that rising blush.” “By no means,” cried Hamilton; “my acquaintance with the young lady is of very recent date.” “I did not know there was any acquaintance whatever,” said A. Z. “It scarcely deserves the name. We travelled part of the way from Munich together; their carriage was dreadfully crowded, and I proposed taking some of the travellers. Mademoiselle Crescenz, the nursery-maid, and a kicking boy, called Peppy, were consigned to my care.” “Such civility was very unusual on the part of Englishmen; at least, our countrymen are here generally supposed to be selfish when travelling,” observing A. Z. “Perhaps my motives were not quite free from an alloy of selfishness; I rather dreaded the _ennui_ of a long afternoon alone in an uncomfortable carriage; and, besides, I was in search of an adventure.” “How did it turn out?”