"Smith!"
Half aroused, he turned and looked down. The moonlight glimmered on Kingsbury's single eyeglass. After a moment his senses returned; he descended to the ground and peered at Kingsbury, rubbing his eyes.
With one accord they started toward the house, moving slowly, shoulder to shoulder.
"Not that I personally care," began Kingsbury. "I am sorry only on account of my country. I was, perhaps, precipitate; but I purchased one hundred and seven dolls of Mademoiselle Plessis—her private secretary——"
"What!"
"With whom," continued Kingsbury, thoughtfully, "I am agreeably in love. Such matters, Smith, cannot be wholly controlled by a sense of duty to one's country. Beauty and rank seldom coincide except in fiction. It appears"—he removed his single eyeglass, polished it with his handkerchief, replaced it, and examined the moon—"it appears," he continued blandly, "that it is the Countess of Semois who is—ah—so to speak, afflicted with red hair.... The moon—ahem—is preternaturally bright this evening, Smith."
After a moment Smith halted and turned, raising his steady eyes to that pale mirror of living fire above the forest.
"Well," began Kingsbury, irritably, "can't you say something?"
"Nothing more than I have said to her already—though she were Empress of the World!" murmured Smith, staring fixedly at the moon.
"Empress of what? I do not follow you."