er See, and wondered what had induced him
to come to Bleiberg.

He had left behind him the glory of September in Vienna, a city second
only to Paris in fashion and gaiety; Vienna, with its inimitable bands,
its incomparable gardens, its military maneuvers, its salons, its
charming women; and all for a fool's errand. His Excellency was to
blame. He had casually dropped the remark that the duchy's minister,
Baron von Rumpf, had been given his passports as a persona non grata by
the chancellor of the kingdom, and that a declaration of war was likely
to follow. Maurice's dormant love of journalistic inquiry had become
aroused, and he had asked permission to investigate the affair, a favor
readily granted to him.

But here he was, on the scene, and nobody knew anything, and nobody
could tell anything. The duchess had remained silent. Not unnaturally he
wished himself back in Vienna. There were no court fetes in the city
of Bleiberg. The king's condition was too grave to permit them. And,
besides, there had been no real court in Bleiberg for the space of ten
years, so he was told. Those solemn affairs of the archbishop's, given
once the week for the benefit of the corps diplomatique, were dull and
spiritless. Her Royal Highness was seldom seen, save when she drove
through the streets. Persons who remembered the reign before told what a
mad, gay court it had been. Now it was funereal. The youth and beauty of
Bleiberg held a court of its own. Royalty was not included, nor did it
ask to be.

A strange capital, indeed, Maurice reflected, as he gazed down into the
cool, brown water. He regretted his caprice. There were pretty women in
Vienna. Some of them belonged to the American colony. They danced well,
they sang and played and rode. He had taught some of them how to fence,
and he could not remember the times he had been "buttoned" while paying
too much attention to their lips and eyes. For Maurice loved a thing
of beauty, were it a woman, a horse or a Mediterranean sunset. What a
difference between these two years in Vienna and that year in Calcutta!
He never would forget the dingy office, with its tarnished sign, "U. S.
Consul," tacked insecurely on the door, and the utter loneliness.

He cast a pebble into the lake, and watched the ripples roll away and
disappear, and ruminated on a life full of color and vicissitude. He
remembered the Arizona days, the endless burning sand, the dull routine
of a cavalry trooper, the lith