s may have
dangerous wounds," he said, laughingly.

"Is heroism in America measured by the number of stitches or the size of
the plaster?" she asked, pointedly. "In my country it is a joy, and not
a calamity. Wounds are the misfortune of valor. Pray, be seated, Mr.
Lorry is it not?" she said, pronouncing it quaintly.

He sat down rather suddenly on hearing her utter his name. How had she
learned it? Not a soul on the train knew it, he was sure.

"I am Caspar Guggenslocker. Permit me, Mr. Lorry, to present my wife and
my niece, Miss Guggenslocker," said the uncle, more gracefully than he
had ever heard such a thing uttered before.

In a daze, stunned by the name,--Guggenslocker, mystified over their
acquaintance with his own when he had been foiled at every fair attempt
to learn theirs, Lorry could only mumble his acknowledgments. In all
his life he had never lost command of himself as at this moment.
Guggenslocker! He could feel the dank sweat of disappointment starting
on his brow. A butcher,--a beer maker,--a cobbler,--a gardener,--all
synonyms of Guggenslocker. A sausage manufacturer's niece--Miss
Guggenslocker! He tried to glance unconcernedly at her as he took up
his napkin, but his eyes wavered helplessly. She was looking serenely at
him, yet he fancied he saw a shadow of mockery in her blue eyes.

"If you were a novel writer, Mr. Lorry, what manner of heroine would
you choose?" she asked, with a smile so tantalizing that he understood
instinctively why she was reviving a topic once abandoned. His
confusion was increased. Her uncle and aunt were regarding him
calmly,--expectantly, he imagined.

"I--I have no ambition to be a novel writer," he said, "so I have not
made a study of heroines."

"But you would have an ideal," she persisted.

"I'm sure I--I don't--that is, she would not necessarily be a heroine.
Unless, of course, it would require heroism to pose as an ideal for such
a prosaic fellow as I."

"To begin with, you would call her Clarabel Montrose or something
equally as impossible. You know the name of a heroine in a novel must
be euphonious. That is an exacting rule." It was an open taunt, and
he could see that she was enjoying his discomfiture. It aroused his
indignation and his wits.

"I would first give my hero a distinguished name. No matter what the
heroine's name might be--pretty or otherwise--I could easily change it
to his in the last chapter." She flushed beneath his now bright, keen