ousers were tight
fitting, with broad stripes of silver; and the half boots were of patent
leather. He walked backward and forward before the pier-glass.

"I say, Fitz, what do you think of it?"

"You're a handsome rascal, Maurice," answered the Englishman, who had
watched his young friend, amusement in his sober eyes. "Happily, there
are no young women present."

"Go to! I'll lay odds that our hostess is under twenty-five."

"I meant young women of sixteen or seventeen. Women such as Madame have
long since passed the uniform fever."

"Not when it has lace, my friend, court lace. Well, forward to the
dining hall."

Both were rather disappointed to find that Madame would be absent until
dinner. Fitzgerald could not tell exactly why he was disappointed, and
he was angry with himself for the vague regret. Maurice, however, found
consolation in the demure French maid who served them. Every time he
smiled she made a courtesy, and every time she left the room Maurice
nudged Fitzgerald.

"Smile, confound you, smile!" he whispered. "There's never a maid but
has her store of gossip, and gossip is information."

"Pshaw!" said Fitzgerald, helping himself to cold ham and chicken.

"Wine, Messieurs?" asked the maid.

"Ah, then Madame offers the cellars?" said Maurice.

"Yes, Messieurs. There is chambertin, champagne, chablis, tokayer and
sherry."

"Bring us some chambertin, then."

"Oui, Messieurs."

"Hurry along, my Hebe," said Maurice.

The maid was not on familiar terms with the classics, but she told the
butler in the pantry that the smooth-faced one made a charming Captain.

"Keep your eyes open," grumbled the butler; "he'll be kissing you next."

"He might do worse," was the retort. Even maids have their mirrors, and
hers told a pretty story. When she returned with the wine she asked:
"And shall I pour it, Messieurs?"

"No one else shall," declared Maurice. "When is the duchess to arrive?"

"I do not know, Monsieur," stepping in between the chairs and filling
the glasses with the ruby liquid.

"Who is Madame Sylvia Amerbach?"

"Madame Sylvia Amerbach," placing the bottle on the table and going to
the sideboard. She returned with a box of "Khedives."

Fitzgerald laughed at Maurice's disconcertion.

"Where has Madame gone?"

"To the summer home of Countess Herzberg, who is to return with Madame."

"Oho!" cried Maurice, in English. "A countess! What do you say to that,
my Englishman?"

"She is pr