"No," I answered, "she is not." I asked her if she were. She laughed at the suggestion, and said: 'Oh, no, no, the princess is a very proud person and very exclusive. She knows but one burgher girl in Peronne, I am told. That one is Twonette, and I believe she treats her most ungraciously at times. I would not endure her snubs and haughty ways as Twonette does. I seek the friendship of no princess. Girls of my own class are good enough for me. "Twonette, fetch me a cup of wine." "Twonette, thread my needle." "Twonette, you are fat and lazy and sleep too much." "Twonette, stand up." "Twonette, sit down." Faugh! I tell you I want none of these princesses, no, not one of them. I hate princesses, and I tell you I doubly hate this--this--' She did not say whom she doubly hated. She is a forward little witch, Max. She laughed merrily at my questions concerning the princess, and asked me if we were going to Burgundy to storm Mary's heart. 'Who is to win her?' she asked. 'You, Sir Karl, or Sir Max? It must be you. Sir Max is too slow and dignified even to think of scaling the walls of a maiden fortress. It must be you, Sir Karl.' The saucy little elf rose from her chair, bowed low before me and said, 'I do liege homage to the future Duke of Burgundy.' Then she danced across the room, laughing at my discomfiture. She is charming, Max, but remember Gertrude the Conqueror! Such trifling affairs are well enough to teach a man the a-b-c of life but one with your destiny ahead of him must not remain too long in his alphabet. Such affairs are for boys, Max, for boys." "Do not fear for me, Karl," answered Max, laughingly. "We are not apt to take hurt from dangers we see." "Do you clearly see the danger?" I suggested. "I clearly see," he responded. "I admire Fräulein Yolanda as I have never admired any other woman. I respect her as if she were a princess; but one of the penalties of my birth is that I may not think of her nor of one of her class. She is not for me; she is a burgher maiden--out of my reach. For that reason I feel that I should respect her." The attitude of Max toward Yolanda was a real triumph of skill and adroitness over inherited convictions and false education. She had brought him from condescension to deference solely by the magic of her art. Or am I wrong? Was it her artlessness? Perhaps it was her artful artlessness, since every girl-baby is born with a modicum of that dangerous quality. "Perhaps you are right, Karl," added Max. "I may underrate the power of this girl. As you have said, she is a little witch. But beneath her laughter there is a rare show of tenderness and strength, which at times seems pathetic and almost elfin. You are right, Karl. I will devote myself to Twonette hereafter. She is like a feather-bed in that she cannot be injured by a blow, neither can she give one; but Yolanda--ah, Karl, she is like a priceless jewel that may be shattered by a blow and may blind one by its radiance."