"You? It is I--I----" muttered Jean breathlessly. "And
who lives in the tower, my good man? It is not big
enough for a dozen hens." She slipped a florin into his
hand.
"Four of the noble ladies live there. The princesses.
The gracious sisters of Furst Hugo. There come two of
them now."
A couple of lean, wrinkled women dressed in soiled merino
gowns and huge black aprons, their hair bristling in curl
papers, crossed the road, peering curiously at the
strangers.
"They came to look at you, Fraulein," said the man,
chuckling. "Strangers do not stop at Wolfburgh twice in
the year."
"And what do the noble ladies do all the year?"
"Jean, Jean!" remonstrated Clara.
"Oh, Miss Vance! This is life and death to some of us!
What do they do?"
"Do?" said the man, staring. "What shall any gracious
lady do? They cook and brew, and crochet lace and----"
"Are there any more princesses--sisters of Furst Hugo?"
"Two more. They live in Munich. No, none of them are
married. Because," he added zealously, "there are no men
as high-born as our gracious ladies, so they cannot
marry."
"No doubt that accounts for it," said Jean. "Six. These
are `the channels into which the income will flow,' hey?"
She gave him more money, and marching into the station
caught Lucy by the shoulder, shaking her passionately.
"Do you think any American girl could stand that? How
would YOU like to be caged up in that ridiculous tower
to cook and crochet and brew beer and watch the train go
by for recreation? The year round--the year round?"
Lucy rose quietly.
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