There
was something reluctant in her step, in the good-by glance, in the
sudden fall of the smiling lips.
"She will make some man a good wife," said Carmichael.
The vintner scowled at his tankard.
"He is not sure of her," thought Carmichael. Aloud he said: "What a
funny world it is!"
"How?"
"Gretchen is beautiful enough to be a queen, and yet she is merely a
Hebe in a tavern."
"Hebe?" suspiciously. The peasant is always suspicious of anything he
doesn't understand.
"Hebe was a cup-bearer to the mythological gods in olden times,"
Carmichael explained. He had set a trap, but the vintner had not fallen
into it.
"A fairy-story." The vintner nodded; he understood now.
Carmichael's glance once more rested on the vintner's hand. He would lay
another trap.
"What happened to her?"
"Oh," said Carmichael, "she spilled wine on a god one day, and they
banished her."
"It must have been a rare vintage."
"I suppose you are familiar with all valleys. Moselle?"
"Yes. That is a fine country."
The old man in tatters sat erect in his chair, but he did not turn his
head.
"You have served?"
"A little. If I could be an officer I should like the army." The vintner
reached for his pipe which lay on the table.
"Try this," urged Carmichael, offering his pouch.
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