ment—though no argument was really needed, as, at the bottom of my heart, I shared her opinion.
"In the same way as Marguerite is worth more than Gulnare," I remarked.
Naturally, in speaking of Marguerite, I thought of her, though in appearance, anyhow, she did not answer to the traditional notion of this German maiden, much less to a foreigner's conception of her. I could not help smiling as my thoughts reverted to a little Frenchman at the Polytechnic, who, whenever we passed a fair girl, used to nudge me and say, "Gretchen!" without troubling to notice whether she was nearly a dwarf or a giantess, a bold minx or an overdressed girl with a self-assertive air. Always, "Voilà Gretchen," with the impossible ch!
If she did not resemble Marguerite, neither could I in the least be compared with Faust—a fact which I at once made evident, by lacking the courage to offer myself as her escort.
For her part she seemed quite content to remain where she was. But I was in a difficulty, for although to converse across a chasm on such elevated topics appeared to be absurd, yet I could not persuade myself that I had the right to join her. Indeed, to propose such a thing was quickly made impossible by the smaller child exclaiming—
"Why doesn't he come over here, when he so much wants to speak to you?"
After this remark there seemed nothing else to do but to pretend that it was time for me to go home. So I wished her a pleasant walk, and consoled myself with a hope that I should soon have another chance to meet her.
This hope, however, was not realised. Day after day I wandered about, looking and listening like a hunter—
