so his fingers came into
contact with the purse he had picked up in the road that
morning--Hildegarde von Heideloff. What meant Fate in crossing _her_
path with his? He had been perfectly contented in mind and heart
before that first morning ride; and here he was, sighing like a
furnace. She had been merely pretty on Monday, on Tuesday she had been
handsome, on Wednesday she had been adorable; now she was the most
beautiful woman that ever lived. (Ah, the progressive adjective, that
litany of love!) Alas! it was quite evident that she had passed out of
his life as suddenly and mysteriously as she had entered it. He would
keep the purse as a souvenir, and some day, when he was an old man, he
would open it.

There is something compelling in the human eye, a magnetism upon which
Science has yet to put her cold and unromantic finger. Have you never
experienced the sensation that some [Transcriber's note: someone?] was
looking at you? Doubtless you have. Well, Max presently turned his
glance toward his silent fellow traveler. She had lifted her veil and
was staring at him with wondering, fearing eyes. These eyes were
somewhat red, as if the little bees of grief had stung them.

"You!" he cried, the blood thumping into his throat. He tossed his hat
to the floor and started for her end of the compartment.

She held up a hand as if to ward off his approach. "I can hear
perfectly," she said; "it is not needful that you should come any
nearer."

He sat down confused. He could not remember when his heart had beaten
so irregularly.

"May I ask how you came to enter this compartment?" she asked coldly.

"I jumped in,"--simply. What was to account for this strange attitude?

"So I observe. What I meant was, by what right?"

"It happened to be the only door at hand, and I was in a great hurry."
Where was his usual collectedness of thought? He was embarrassed and
angry at the knowledge.

"Did you follow me?" Her nostrils were palpitating and the corners of
her mouth were drawn aggressively.

"Follow you?" amazed that such an idea should enter into her head.
"Why, you are the last person I ever expected to see again. Indeed,
you are only a fairy-story; there is, I find, no such person as
Hildegarde von Heideloff." Clearly he was recovering.

"I know it,"--candidly. "It was my mother's name, and I saw fit to use
it." She really hoped he _hadn't_ followed her.

"You had no need to use it, or any name,