ssly over her handsome head.

I was in ecstasies, for Bee's wholesome admiration of her stunning
officer and his undeniably unusual horsemanship prevented her from being
rendered in any way uncomfortable by his action, for truth to tell, Bee
_was_ a target for the roving glances of Baron von Furzmann, but he was
so hopelessly the wrong man that she not only was unaware of it then but
vehemently disclaimed it when I enlightened her later. Alas and alack!
The wrong man is always the wrong man, and never can take the place of
the right man, no matter what his country or speech.

It was supremely interesting to talk with men who had known the
beautiful Empress well; to whom her living beauty was as familiar as her
pictured loveliness was to us. We plied them with countless questions as
to her wonderful horsemanship, her daily appearance, her dress, her
conversation, and her learning. Their enthusiastic praise of her was
genuine and spontaneous.

I was dying to ask minute questions about the Crown Prince's affair, but
just enough sense was left in my make-up to know that I must not. They
might whisper their gossip to each other who knew all of the truth
anyway, but to strangers their loyalty would compel them to suppress not
only what they themselves knew but what we knew to be the truth. Both of
these officers had known Prince Rudie well; had hunted with him;
travelled with him; served with him; had often been at his hunting-lodge
Mayerling, where he died, but, when they came to refer to this part of
their narrative, they were so visibly embarrassed that we changed the
subject to the Princess Stephanie. Here, although they were studiously
careful to put nothing into actual words, their manner plainly indicated
their contempt and dislike of the heavy Belgian Princess, who was so
poor a helpmeet for the graceful and picturesque figure of the Crown
Prince of Austria.

"Did you know the lady in her Majesty's suite who wrote 'The Martyrdom
of an Empress?'" I demanded, boldly.

Von Engel's face flushed darkly.

"I do not know. I am not certain," he stammered.

"Never mind. Don't commit yourself. She was exiled, wasn't she, for
arranging meetings between Prince Rudolph and his _belle amie?_ She was
a dear thing, whoever she was, for she gave him what was probably the
only real happiness he ever knew. And when people love each other well
enough to die together, it means more than most men and women can
boast."

Jimmie tro