breast, her eyes
half shut in the luxury of the senses, stood the goose-girl. He smiled
as he recalled the encounter of that afternoon. It was his habit to ride
to the maneuvers every day, and several times he had noticed her, as
well as any rider is able to notice a pedestrian. But that afternoon her
beauty came home to him suddenly and unexpectedly. Had she been other
than what she was, a woman well-gowned, for instance, riding in her
carriage, his interest would have waned in the passing. But it had come
with the same definite surprise as when one finds a rare and charming
story in a dilapidated book.

"Why couldn't I have fallen in love with some one like this?" he
cogitated.

With a friendly smile on his lips, he took a step toward her, but
instantly paused. Colonel von Wallenstein of the general staff
approached her from the other side, and Carmichael was curious to find
out what that officer's object was. Wallenstein was a capital soldier,
and a jolly fellow round a board, but beyond that Carmichael had no
real liking for him. There were too many scented notes stuck in his
pockets.

The colonel dropped his cigarette, leaned over Gretchen's shoulder and
spoke a few words. At first she gave no heed. The colonel persisted.
Without a word in reply, she resolutely sought the nearest policeman.
Wallenstein, remaining where he was, laughed. Meantime the policeman
frowned. It was incredible; his excellency could not possibly have
intended any wrong, it was only a harmless pleasantry. Gretchen's lips
quivered; the law of redress in Ehrenstein had no niche for the
goose-girl.

"Good evening, colonel," said Carmichael pleasantly. "Why can't your
bandmaster give us light opera once in a while?"

The colonel pulled his mustache in chagrin, but he did not give
Carmichael the credit for bringing about this cheapening sense. For the
time being Gretchen was freed from annoyance. The colonel certainly
could not rush off to her and give this keen-eyed American an
opportunity to witness a further rebuff.

"Light operas are rare at present," he replied, accepting his defeat
amiably enough.

"Paris is full of them just now," continued Carmichael.

"Paris? Would you like a riot in the gardens?" asked the colonel,
amused.

"A riot?" said Carmichael derisively. "Why, nothing short of a bombshell
would cause a riot among your phlegmatic Germans."

"I believe you love your Paris better than your Dreiberg."

"Not a bit of d