d his seat.

"The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I have
committed a transgression, but the veil tempted me."

"It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am waiting
for some one. You may talk till that person comes." Her voice was now
in its natural tone; and he was convinced that if her face were half
as sweet, she must possess rare beauty. "Hush!" as the band began to
breathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They listened until the music ceased.

"Ah!" said he rapturously, "the polonaise! When you hear it, does there
not recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours, the sibilant murmur
of fragrant night winds through the crisp foliage, the faint call
of Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-fairies dancing on the
spider-webs, the glint of the dew on the roses, the far-off music of the
surges tossing impotently on the sands, the forgetfulness of time and
place and care, and not a cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, the
polonaise!"

"Surely you must be a poet!" declared the Veil, when this panegyric was
done.

"No," said he modestly, "I never was quite poor enough for that exalted
position." He had recovered his good humor.

"Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when not in
search of--comic operas?"

"I serve Ananias."

"Ananias?" A pause. "Ah, you are a diplomat?"

"How clever of you to guess."

"Yours is a careless country," observed the Veil.

"Careless?" mystified.

"Yes, to send forth her green and salad youth. Eh, bien! There are
hopes for you. If you live you will grow old; you will become bald and
reserved; you will not speak to strangers, to while away an idle hour;
for permit me, Monsieur, who am wise, to tell you that it is a dangerous
practice."

"And do I look so very young?"

"Your beard is that of a boy."

"David slew Goliath."

"At least you have a ready tongue," laughing.

"And you told me that I had been a soldier."

But to this she had nothing to say.

"I am older than you think, Mademoiselle of the Veil. I have been a
soldier; I have seen hard service, too. Mine is no cushion sword. Youth?
'Tis a virtue, not a crime; and, besides, it is an excellent disguise."

For some time she remained pensive.

"You are thinking of something, Mademoiselle."

"Do you like adventure?"

"I subsist on it."

"You have been a soldier; you are, then, familiar with the use of arms?"

"They tell me so," modestly. What was coming?

"I