They interested him not, neither did he love Professor Calame's scratchy pictures, nor the jumbled bric-a-brac of art and history.

None of these charmed him.

He waited only for the gliding step, the clasp of a burning hand, and the flash of the lustrous dark-brown eyes.

It was his own innings now.
He had referred to his watch for the fiftieth time, when, from a closed carriage, the object of his mental vituperations gracefully alighted at last.

It was with the very coldest of bows that the irritated man received the graceful, self-possessed woman, whose lovely face was but partially hidden by her coquettishly dotted veil.
"She dresses like a Parisienne, walks like an Andalu-sian, and has all the seductiveness of a Polish countess!" the quick-witted rascal thought, as they strolled into the museum, which the departed General Rath knew not would be the scene of many a hidden love intrigue, when he endowed it with a benevolent vanity.