Do I look like a comtesse?"
she asked, laughing.

"You look perfectly charming, mademoiselle."

"Liane, if you please," she said reprovingly, holding up her slim
forefinger. "Liane, Comtesse de Bourbriac, Chateau de Bourbriac, Cotes
du Nord!" and her pretty lips parted, showing her even, pearly teeth.

When, half an hour later, we entered the ballroom we found all smart
Brussels assembled around a royal prince and his wife who had given
their patronage in the cause of charity. The affair was, I saw at a
glance, a distinctly society function, for many men from the Ministries
were present, and several of the Ambassadors in uniform, together with
their staffs, who, wearing their crosses and ribbons, made a brave
show, as they do in every ballroom.

We had not been there ten minutes before a tall, good-looking young man
in a German cavalry uniform strode up in recognition, and bowing low
over Valentine's outstretched hand, said in French--

"My dear Countess! How very delighted we are to have you here with us
to-night! You will spare me a dance, will you not? May I be introduced
to the Count?"

"My husband--Captain von Stolberg, of the German Embassy."

And we shook hands. Was this fellow the lover? I wondered.

"I met the Countess at Vichy last autumn," explained the Captain in very
good English. "She spoke very often of you. You were away in Scotland,
shooting the grouse," he said.

"Yes--yes," I replied for want of something better to say.

We both chatted with the young attache for a few minutes, and then, as a
waltz struck up, he begged a dance of my "wife," and they both whirled
down the room. Valentine was a splendid dancer, and as I watched them I
wondered what could be the nature of the plot in progress.

I did not come across my pretty fellow-traveller for half an hour, and
then I found that the Captain had half filled her programme. Therefore I
"lay low," danced once or twice with uninteresting Belgian matrons, and
spent the remainder of the night in the _fumoir_, until I found my
"wife" ready to return to the Grand.

When we were back in the salon at the hotel she asked--

"How do you like the Captain, M'sieur Ewart? Is he not--what you call in
English--a duck?"

"An over-dressed, swaggering young idiot, I call him," was my prompt
reply.

"And there you are right--quite right, my dear M'sieur Ewart. But
you see we all have an eye to business in this affair. He will call
to-morrow, because he i