woman, in a big, round starched white cap and a flowing black silk gown.
She sat in an uncushioned oaken armchair by the window, with some
white knitting in her bony, blunt-fingered brown hands, and
tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles on her nose. But the spectacles
couldn't hide the goodness or the soundness or the sweetness that looked
forth from her motherly old honest brown eyes.

"He is a young man who lives _en pension_ at the presbytery," said Maria
Dolores, "a young Englishman."

"So?" said Frau Brandt. "What is his name?"

"I don't know," said Maria Dolores, with disengagement real or feigned.
"His Christian name, I believe, is John."

"But his family name?" persisted Frau Brandt.

"It is probably Brown, Jones, or Robinson," said Maria Dolores. "Or it
may even be Black, Smith, or Johnson. Most Englishmen are named one or
the other."

"So?" said Frau Brandt. "But is it prudent or seemly for you to talk
familiarly with a young man whose name is unknown to you?"

"Why not?" asked Maria Dolores, raising her eyebrows, as if surprised.
"He seems a very harmless young man. I don't think he will eat me. And
he is English,--and I like English people. And he is intelligent,--his
conversation amuses me. And he has nice easy, impetuous manners,--so
different from the formality and restraint of Austrian young men. What
can his name matter?"