nd when I do--" He laughed silently.
"Well, I am a comely man, and Madame the duchess shall be my wife."

CHAPTER VI. MADEMOISELLE OF THE VEIL

The public park at night was a revelation to Maurice, who, lonely and
restless, strolled over from the hotel in quest of innocent amusement.
He was none the worse for his unintended bath; indeed, if anything,
he was much the better for it. His imagination was excited. It was not
every day that a man could, at one and the same time, fall out of a boat
and into the presence of a princess of royal blood.

He tried to remember all he had said to her, but only two utterances
recurred to him; yet these caused him an exhilaration like the bouquet
of old wine. He had told her that she was beautiful, indirectly, it was
true; she had accepted his friendship, also indirectly, it was true. Now
the logical sequence of all this was--but he broke into a light laugh.
What little vanity he possessed was without conceit. Princesses of royal
blood were beyond the reach of logical sequence; and besides, she was to
be married on the twentieth of the month.

He followed one of the paths which led to the pavilion. It was a
charming scene, radiant with gas lamps, the vivid kaleidoscope of gowns
and uniforms. Beautiful faces flashed past him. There were in the air
the vague essences of violet, rose and heliotrope. Sometimes he caught
the echo of low laughter or the snatch of a gay song. The light of
the lamps shot out on the crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of
quivering flame, which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and
afar twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which rested
partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.

The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and Maurice
yielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned over the pavilion
rail, and out of the blackness below he endeavored to conjure up the
face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who had danced with him at the embassies
in Vienna, fenced and ridden with him, till--till--with a gesture of
impatience he flung away the end of his cigar.

Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate he
saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the Princess
Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose lips were as red
as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice was sweeter than that
throbbing up from the 'cello. If he thought much more of her, there
would