“What do you say to her Royal Highness?”
“Let us make it general: to all women!”
They set down the glasses and shook hands again.
“It seemed good to run across you in Vienna, Maurice. You were one of the bright spots in the old days.”
“Do you want me to walk with you to the Grand? It's a fine night,” said Maurice, waving his hand toward the moon. “By George, what a beautiful place this end of Bleiberg is! I do not wonder that the duchess covets it.”
“No, I'll go alone. All I have to do is to march straight up the Strasse.”
“Well, good-night and good luck to you,” said Maurice, as he led the Englishman into the hallway. “Look me up when you have settled the business. I say, but it gets me; it's the strangest thing I ever heard.” And he waited till the soldierly form disappeared below the landing.
Then he went back to his chair on the balcony to think it over. At four o'clock that afternoon he had grumbled of dullness. He lit a pipe, and contemplated the soft and delicate blues of earth and heaven, the silvery flashes on the lake, and the slim violet threads of smoke which wavered about his head. It was late. Now and then the sound of a galloping horse was borne up by the breeze, and presently Maurice heard the midnight bell boom forth from the sleepy spires of the cathedral—where the princess was to be married.
One by one the lamps of the park went out, but the moon shone on, lustrous and splendid. First he reviewed his odd adventure in the archbishop's gardens. He had spoken to princesses before, but they were women of the world, hothouse roses that bloom and wither in a short space. The atmosphere which surrounded this princess was idyllic, pastoral. She had seen nothing of the world, its sports and pastimes, and the art of playing at love was unknown to her. Again he could see her serious eyes, the delicate chin and mouth, the oval cheeks, and the dog that followed in her steps. Here was an indelible picture which time could never efface. Something stirred in his heart, and he sighed.
And ah, the woman in the veil! Who could she be? The more he thought of her the more convinced he was that she stood high in the service of any one but Leopold of Osia. And Fitzgerald! That sober old soldier concerned with crowns and millions! It was incredible; it was almost laughable. They had met up-country in India, and had hunted, and Maurice had saved the Englishman's life. Occasionally they had corresponded.