The young man, Matthew McCallum, was of medium build, well-proportioned of physique, though not large or bulky. A healthy crop of light brown hair was just sufficiently windblown and scattered to indicate that he was not overly preoccupied with appearance, though his light grey suit, navy tie, and polished black wing tips fit in admirably with the high-society surroundings of the festive Berlin garden party. Five-nine or so in height, his lean, seventeen-year-old face gave hints of a dawning sophistication, both in the ways of the world and in knowledge and insight into people and relationships, yet it retained enough of the eagerness of youth to reveal a hunger to learn—the most hopeful sign to be looked for in any face—and to promise another inch or two in growth as well. There was surely an athleticism in the muscles and limbs of his frame, though if physical activities had been among his pursuits, they had likely been of an individual variety. He carried neither the muscular heft nor overall height or size to have shown himself imposing on a football field, and the determination revealed by his high cheekbones and the set of his triangular jaw spoke of an intensity to push himself toward his own goals rather than the fierceness necessary to triumph on the field of the game. In his eyes glowed a passion, yet unknown even to himself, for the pursuit of individual rather than group excellence. A straight Roman nose below deep-set light grey eyes gave further corroboration that beneath them was housed the intellect of a thinker whose faculties still awaited their full awakening. That here stood an individual of fiber there could be little doubt, though it would take the cauldron of life’s fires to purify and strengthen the mettle. And only by his own sacrifice would it be transformed into the shining gold of selflessness and eternal character.

All this, however, yet lay dormant in the youthful and still developing countenance of Matthew McCallum, as the niece of the host took in the face and overall bearing of the young man to whom she had just been introduced.

“How long have you been in Berlin?” Sabina asked him.

“Four years. It’s just my father and me,” replied Matthew.

“Your mother?”

“She died eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry. That must make it hard for you.”

“I suppose so. It was hard when I was young, but my father and I are good friends.”

“I am very close to my father as well,” said Sabina, “so perhaps I understand.”

A brief silence followed. It gave Matthew the opportunity to take in the young lady he had suddenly found himself alone with. From the moment his eyes had first beheld her approaching with her father, he could hardly imagine a more thorough picture of German beauty. The girl was positively stunning!