on her own.

"I am very unhappy," he said, simply. "May we not speak of other
things?"

"Yes, Ricky," she said, faintly. He looked almost handsome there
in the moonlight, but under his evening dress the square build of
the Prussian trooper, the rigid back, and sturdy limbs were
perhaps too apparent for ideal civilian elegance. Dorothy looked
into his serious young face. He touched his blond mustache, felt
unconsciously for the sabre that was not dangling from his left
hip, remembered, coloured, and stood up even straighter.

"We are thinking of the same thing," said Dorothy; "I was trying
to recall that last time we met--do you remember? In Paris?"

He nodded; eyes fixed on hers.

"At the Diplomatic Ball?"

"Yes."

"And you were in uniform, and your sabre was very beautiful,
but--do you remember how it clashed and banged on the marble
stairway, and how the other attaches teased you until you tucked
it under your left arm? Dear me! I was fascinated by your
patent-leather sabre-tache, and your little spurs, that rang like
tiny chimes when you walked. What sentimental creatures young
girls are! Ne c'est pas, Ricky?"

"I have never forgotten that evening," he said, in a voice so low
that she leaned involuntarily nearer.

"We were very young then," she said, waving her fan.

"It was not a year ago."

"We were young," she repeated, coldly.

"Yet I shall never forget, Dorothy."

She closed her fan and began to examine the fluffy plumes. Her
cheeks were red, and she bit her lips continually.

"Do you particularly admire Molly Hesketh's hand?" she asked,
indifferently.

He turned crimson. How could she know of the episode in the
orangery? Know? There was no mystery in that; Molly Hesketh had
told her. But Rickerl von Elster, loyal in little things, saw but
one explanation--Dorothy must have seen him.

"Yes--I kissed her hand," he said. He did not add that Molly had
dared him.

Dorothy raised her head with an icy smile.

"Is it honourable to confess such a thing?" she asked, in steady
tones.

"But--but you knew it, for you saw me--" he stammered.

"I did not!" she flashed out, and walked straight into the house.

"Dorrie!" cried her brother as she swept by him, "what do you
think? Lorraine de Nesville is coming this evening!"

"Lorraine?" said his sister--"dear me, I am dying to see her."

"Then turn around," whispered Betty Castlemaine, leaning across
from Cecil's arm. "Oh, Dorrie! what a beauty