"I believe you love your Paris better than your Dreiberg."
"Not a bit of doubt. And down in your heart you do, too. Think of the lights, the theaters, the cafés and the pretty women!" Carmichael's cane described a flourish as if to draw a picture of these things.
"Yes, yes," agreed the colonel reminiscently; "you are right. There is no other night equal to a Parisian night. Ach, Gott! But think of the mornings, think of the mornings!"—dolefully.
"On the contrary, let us not think of them!"—with a mock shudder.
And then a pretty woman rose from a chair near-by. She nodded brightly at the colonel, who bowed, excused himself to Carmichael, and made off after her.
"I believe I stepped on his toe that time," said Carmichael to himself.
Then he looked round for Gretchen. She was still at the side of the policeman. She had watched the scene between the two men, but was quite unconscious that it had been set for her benefit. She came back. Carmichael stepped confidently to her side and raised his hat.
"Did you get your geese together without mishap?" he asked.
The instinct of the child always remains with the woman. Gretchen smiled. This young man would be different, she knew.
"They were only frightened. But his highness"—eagerly—"was he very angry?"