I was, therefore, about to return an evasive answer,
when he saved my conscience by leaving me suddenly and darting across
the platform. Following him with my eyes, I saw him lift his hat and
accost a graceful, fashionably dressed woman who had just appeared from
the booking-office. She was, perhaps, a year or two over thirty, tall,
dark, and of rather full figure. As George talked, I saw her glance at
me, and my vanity was hurt by the thought that, muffled in a fur coat
and a neck-wrapper (for it was a chilly April day) and wearing a soft
travelling hat pulled down to my ears, I must be looking very far from
my best. A moment later, George rejoined me.
"You've got a charming travelling companion," he said. "That's poor Bert
Bertrand's goddess, Antoinette de Mauban, and, like you, she's going to
Dresden--also, no doubt, to see the pictures. It's very queer, though,
that she doesn't at present desire the honour of your acquaintance."
"I didn't ask to be introduced," I observed, a little annoyed.
"Well, I offered to bring you to her; but she said, 'Another time.'
Never mind, old fellow, perhaps there'll be a smash, and you'll have a
chance of rescuing her and cutting out the Duke of Strelsau!"
No smash, however, happened, either to me or to Madame de Mauban.
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