rrant him in making a
paper about Sedan Day in Weimar, which he could sell somewhere; but the
night was falling, and there was still no sign of popular rejoicing
over the French humiliation twenty-eight years before, except in the
multitude of Japanese lanterns which the children were everywhere
carrying at the ends of sticks. Babies had them in their carriages,
and the effect of the floating lights in the winding, up-and-down-hill
streets was charming even to Burnamy's lack-lustre eyes. He went by
his hotel and on to a cafe with a garden, where there was a patriotic,
concert promised; he supped there, and then sat dreamily behind his
beer, while the music banged and brayed round him unheeded.

Presently he heard a voice of friendly banter saying in English, "May
I sit at your table?" and he saw an ironical face looking down on him.
"There doesn't seem any other place."

"Why, Mr. March!" Burnamy sprang up and wrung the hand held out to him,
but he choked with his words of recognition; it was so good to see this
faithful friend again, though he saw him now as he had seen him last,
just when he had so little reason to be proud of himself.

March settled his person in the chair facing Burnamy, and then glanced
round at the joyful jam of people eating and drinking, under a firmament
of lanterns. "This is pretty," he said, "mighty pretty. I shall make
Mrs. March sorry for not coming, when I go back."

"Is Mrs. March--she is--with you--in Weimar?" Burnamy asked stupidly.

March forbore to take advantage of him. "Oh, yes. We saw you out at
Belvedere this afternoon. Mrs. March thought for a moment that you meant
not to see us. A woman likes to exercise her imagination in those little
flights."

"I never dreamed of your being there--I never saw--" Burnamy began.

"Of course not. Neither did Mrs. Etkins, nor Miss Etkins; she was
looking very pretty. Have you been here some time?"

"Not long. A week or so. I've been at the parade at Wurzburg."

"At Wurzburg! Ah, how little the world is, or how large Wurzburg is!
We were there nearly a week, and we pervaded the place. But there was
a great crowd for you to hide in from us. What had I better take?" A
waiter had come up, and was standing at March's elbow. "I suppose I
mustn't sit here without ordering something?"

"White wine and selters," said Burnamy vaguely.

"The very thing! Why didn't I think of it? It's a divine drink: it
satisfies without filling. I had it a night