"Then, if you receive another despatch, we shall all know?"
Rickerl von Elster bent his head and laid a gloved hand lightly on her own.
"I am very unhappy," he said, simply. "May we not speak of other things?"
"Yes, Ricky," she said, faintly. He looked almost handsome there in the moonlight, but under his evening dress the square build of the Prussian trooper, the rigid back, and sturdy limbs were perhaps too apparent for ideal civilian elegance. Dorothy looked into his serious young face. He touched his blond mustache, felt unconsciously for the sabre that was not dangling from his left hip, remembered, coloured, and stood up even straighter.
"We are thinking of the same thing," said Dorothy; "I was trying to recall that last time we met—do you remember? In Paris?"
He nodded; eyes fixed on hers.
"At the Diplomatic Ball?"
"Yes."
"And you were in uniform, and your sabre was very beautiful, but—do you remember how it clashed and banged on the marble stairway, and how the other attachés teased you until you tucked it under your left arm? Dear me! I was fascinated by your patent-leather sabre-tache, and your little spurs, that rang like tiny chimes when you walked. What sentimental creatures young girls are! Ne c'est pas, Ricky?"
"I have never forgotten that evening," he said, in a voice so low that she leaned involuntarily nearer.