A Cigarette-Makers Romance | Page 8

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 people or what is their staring to me?" asked the
Count, quietly. "I am not afraid of being taken for a servant or a porter,
because I carry a lady's parcel. Pray give me the basket."
"Oh no, pray let it be," cried Vjera, in great earnest. "I cannot bear to
see you with such a thing in your hand."
They were still standing before the picture-dealer's window, while
many people passed along the pavement. In trying to draw away, Vjera
found herself suddenly in the stream, and just then a broad-shouldered
officer who chanced to be looking the other way came into collision
with her, so roughly that she was forced almost into the Count's arms.
The latter made a step forward.
"Is it your habit to jostle ladies in that way?" he asked in a sharp tone,
addressing the stout lieutenant.
The latter muttered something which might be taken for an apology and
passed on, having no intention of being drawn into a street quarrel with
an odd-looking individual who, from his accent, was evidently a
foreigner. The Count's eyes darted an angry glance after the offender,
and then he looked again at Vjera. In the little accident he had got
possession of the basket. Thereupon he passed it to his left hand and
offered Vjera his right arm.
"Did the insolent fellow hurt you?" he asked anxiously, in Polish.
"Oh no--only give me my basket!" Vjera's face was painfully flushed.
"No, my dear child," said the Count, gravely. "You will not deny me

the pleasure of accompanying you and of carrying your burden.
Afterwards, if you will, we can take a little walk together, before I see
you to your home."
"You are always so kind to me," answered the girl, bending her head,
as though to hide her burning cheeks, but submitting at last to his will.
For some minutes they walked on in silence. Then Vjera showed by a
gesture that she wished to cross the street, on the other side of which
was situated one of the principal hotels of the city. In front of the
entrance Vjera put out her hand entreatingly towards her basket, but the
Count took no notice of the attempt and resolutely ascended the steps
of the porch by her side. Behind the swinging glass door stood the huge
porter amply endowed with that military appearance so characteristic of
all men in Germany who wear anything of the nature of an official
costume.
"The lady has a package for some one here," said the Count, holding
out the basket.
"For the head waiter," said Vjera, timidly.
The porter took the basket, set it down, touched the button of an
electric bell and silently looked at the pair with the malignant scrutiny
which is the prerogative of servants in their manner with those whom
they are privileged to consider as their inferiors. Presently, however,
meeting the Count's cold stare, he turned away and strolled up the
vestibule. A moment later the