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At first it seemed as if he had only dispelled one illusion for another. For the figure before him might have been made of Dresden china–so daintily delicate and unique it was in color and arrangement. It was that of a young girl dressed in some forgotten medieval peasant garb of velvet braids, silver-staylaced corsage, lace sleeves, and helmeted metallic comb. But, after the Dresden method, the pale yellow of her hair was repeated in her bodice, the pink of her cheeks was in the roses of her chintz overskirt. The blue of her eyes was the blue of her petticoat; the dazzling whiteness of her neck shone again in the sleeves and stockings. Nevertheless she was real and human, for the pink deepened in her cheeks as Hoffman’s hat flew from his head, and she recognized the civility with a grave little curtsy.

“You have come to see the dairy,” she said in quaintly accurate English; “I will show you the way.”

“If you please,” said Hoffman, gaily, “but–“

“But what?” she said, facing him suddenly with absolutely astonished eyes.

Hoffman looked into them so long that their frank wonder presently contracted into an ominous mingling of restraint and resentment. Nothing daunted, however, he went on:

“Couldn’t we shake all that?”

The look of wonder returned. “Shake all that?” she repeated. “I do not understand.”

“Well! I’m not positively aching to see cows, and you must be sick of showing them. I think, too, I’ve about sized the whole show. Wouldn’t it be better if we sat down in that arbor–supposing it won’t fall down–and you told me all about the lot? It would save you a heap of trouble and keep your pretty frock cleaner than trapesing round. Of course,” he said, with a quick transition to the gentlest courtesy, “if you’re conscientious about this thing we’ll go on and not spare a cow. Consider me in it with you for the whole morning.”

She looked at him again, and then suddenly broke into a charming laugh. It revealed a set of strong white teeth, as well as a certain barbaric trace in its cadence which civilized restraint had not entirely overlaid.

“I suppose she really is a peasant, in spite of that pretty frock,” he said to himself as he laughed too.

But her face presently took a shade of reserve, and with a gentle but singular significance she said:

“I think you must see the dairy.”

Hoffman’s hat was in his hand with a vivacity that tumbled the brown curls on his forehead. “By all means,” he said instantly, and began walking by her side in modest but easy silence. Now that he thought her a conscientious peasant he was quiet and respectful.

Presently she lifted her eyes, which, despite her gravity, had not entirely lost their previous mirthfulness, and said:

“But you Americans–in your rich and prosperous country, with your large lands and your great harvests–you must know all about farming.”

“Never was in a dairy in my life,” said Hoffman gravely. “I’m from the city of New York, where the cows give swill milk, and are kept in cellars.”

Her eyebrows contracted prettily in an effort to understand. Then she apparently gave it up, and said with a slanting glint of mischief in her eyes:

“Then you come here like the other Americans in hope to see the Grand Duke and Duchess and the Princesses?”

“No. The fact is I almost tumbled into a lot of ’em–standing like wax figures–the other side of the park lodge, the other day–and got away as soon as I could. I think I prefer the cows.”

Her head was slightly turned away. He had to content himself with looking down upon the strong feet in their serviceable but smartly buckled shoes that uplifted her upright figure as she moved beside him.

“Of course,” he added with boyish but unmistakable courtesy, “if it’s part of your show to trot out the family, why I’m in that, too. I dare say you could make them interesting.”