being
seen--always an advantage, you will allow."

"You seem to know this place rather well," she observed, as she suffered
him to lead her away in triumph.

He smiled shrewdly. "A wise general always studies his ground," he said.

CHAPTER II

THE QUEEN'S JESTER

The chosen corner certainly had the advantage of privacy. It was an
alcove at the end of one of the long narrow passages in which the ancient
hostelry abounded, and the only light it boasted filtered through a
square aperture in the wall which once had held a window. Through this
aperture the curious could spy into the hall below, which just then was
thronged with dancers who were crowding out of the ballroom and drifting
towards the refreshment-room, the entrance to which was also visible.

An ancient settee had been placed in this coign of vantage, and upon this
they established themselves by mutual consent.

The man was laughing a little below his breath. "I feel like a
refugee," he said.

His companion leaned her arms upon the narrow row sill and gazed
downwards. "A refugee from boredom?" she suggested. "We are all that,
more or less."

"I dispute that," he said at once. "It is only the bores who are
ever bored."

"And I dispute that," she replied, without turning, "of necessity, in
self-defence."

He leaned forward to catch the light upon her profile. "You are bored?"

She smiled faintly in the gloom. "That is why I have engaged the services
of a jester."

"By Jove," he said, "I'm glad you pitched on me."

She made a slight movement of impatience. "Isn't it rather futile to say
that sort of thing?"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you know quite well it was not a matter of choice."

"Rather a matter of _manque de mieux_?" he suggested coolly.

She turned from her contemplation of the crowd below. "I am not going to
contradict you," she said, "I never foster _amour propre_ in a man. It is
always a plant of hardy growth."

"'Hardy' is not the word," he declared. "Say 'rank,' and you will be
nearer the mark. I fully endorse your opinion. We are a race of
conceited, egotistical jackanapeses, and we all think we are going to
lick creation till a pretty woman comes along and makes us dance to her
piping like a row of painted marionettes. But is the pretty woman any
the happier, do you think, for tumbling us thus ruthlessly off our
pedestals? I sometimes wonder if the sight of the sawdust doesn't make
her wish she hadn't."

The dra