Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep.

Presently a color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks.

Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said.
"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.
"It is Maurice Carewe.

I am living in Vienna.

I came to Bleiberg for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.
"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it on her memory.