face the indications of a life-story not without interest, for the crowd
was not, nor ever is, in Munich, lacking in intelligent and observant
persons. But in all the multitude there was not one man or woman who knew
the name of the individual to whom the face belonged, and there were few
who would have risked the respectability of their social position by
making the acquaintance of a man so evidently poor, even if the occasion
had presented itself.

But presently a figure was seen moving swiftly through the throng in the
direction already taken by the Count, a figure of a type much more
familiar to the sight of the Munich stroller, for it was that of a poorly
dressed girl with a long plait of red-brown hair, carrying a covered brown
straw basket upon one arm and hurrying along with the noiseless tread
possible only in the extreme old age of shoes that were never strong. Poor
Vjera had been sent by Fischelowitz with a thousand cigarettes to be
delivered at one of the hotels. She was generally employed upon like
errands, because she was the poorest in the establishment, and those who
received the wares gave her a few pence for her trouble. She sped quickly
onward, until she suddenly found herself close behind the Count. Then she
slackened her pace and crept along as noiselessly as possible, her eyes
fixed upon him as she walked and evidently doing her best not to overtake
him nor to be seen by him. As luck would have it, however, the Count
suddenly stood still before the show window of a picture-dealer's shop. A
clever painting of a solitary Cossack riding along a stony mountain road,
by Josef Brandt, had attracted his attention. Then as he realised that he
had looked at the picture a dozen times during the previous week, his eye
wandered, and in the reflection of the plate-glass window he caught sight
of Vjera's slight form at no great distance from him. He turned sharply
upon his heels and met her eyes, taking off his limp hat with a courteous
gesture.

"Permit me," he said, laying his hand upon the basket and trying to take
it from her.

Poor Vjera's face flushed suddenly, and her grip tightened upon the straw
handle and she refused to let it go.

"No, you shall never do that again," she said, quickly, trying to draw
back from him.

"And why not? Why should I not do you a service?"

"The other day you took it--the people stared at you--they never stare at
me, for I am only a poor girl--"

"And what are the p