What would Phyllis, proud Phyllis, say, I mused, when she heard that a barmaid was her prototype?
This thought had scarcely left me when the door in the rear of the bar opened and in came the barmaid herself.

No, it was not Phyllis, but the resemblance was so startling that I caught my breath and stared at her with a persistency which bordered on rudeness.

The barmaid was blonde, whereas Phyllis was neither blonde nor brunette, but stood between the extremes, and there was a difference in the eyes: I could see that even in the insufficient light.
"Good evening, fraulein," said I, with apparent composure.

"And what might your name be ?" "It is Gretchen, if it please you," with a courtesy.

I had a vague idea that this courtesy was made mockingly.
"Gretchen?
I have heard the name before," said I, "and you remind me of some one I have seen." "Herr has been to the great city ?" B---- is the greatest city in the world to the provincial.
"Yes," said I; "but you remind me of no one I ever saw there." She plucked a leaf from the rose she wore and began nibbling at it.
Her mouth was smaller than the one belonging to Phyllis.
"The person to whom I refer," I went on, "lives in America, where your compatriots brew fine beer and wax rich." "Ah, Herr is an American?
I like Americans," archly.