"Perhaps I have the gift of clairvoyance," gazing again toward the entrance.

"Or perhaps you have been to Vienna."

"Who knows? Most Englishmen are, or have been, soldiers."

"That is true." Inwardly, "There's my friend the Englishman again. She's guessing closer than she knows. Curious; she has mistaken me for some one she does not know, if that is possible." He was somewhat in a haze. "Well, you have remarkable eyes. However, let us talk of a more interesting subject; for instance, yourself. You, too, love adventure, that is, if I interpret the veil rightly."

"Yes; I like to see without being seen. But, of course, behind this love of adventure which you possess, there is an important mission."

"Ah!" he thought; "you are not quite sure of me." Aloud, "Yes, I came here to witness the comic opera."

"The comic opera? I do not understand?"

"I believed there was going to be trouble between the duchy and the kingdom, but unfortunately the prima donna has refused the part."

"The prima donna!" in a m.u.f.fled voice. "Whom do you mean?"

"Son Altesse la Grande d.u.c.h.esse! 'Voici le sabre de mon pere!'" And he whistled a bar from Offenbach, his eyes dancing.

"Sir!--I!--you do wrong to laugh at us!" a flash from the half-hidden eyes.

"Forgive me if I have offended you, but I--"

"Ah, sir, but you who live in a powerful country think we little folk have no hearts, that we have no wrongs to redress, no dreams of conquest and of power. You are wrong."

"And whose side do you defend?"

"I am a woman," was the equivocal answer.

"Which means that you are uncertain."

"I have long ago made up my mind."

"Wonderful! I always thought a woman's mind was like a time-table, subject to change without notice. So you have made up your mind?"

"I was born with its purpose defined," coldly.

"Ah, now I begin to doubt."

"What?" with a still lower degree of warmth.

"That you are a woman. Only G.o.ddesses do not change their minds--sometimes. Well, then you are on the weaker side."

"Or the stronger, since there are two sides."

"And the stronger?" persistently.

"The side which is not the weaker. But the subject is what you English call 'taboo.' It is treading on delicate ground to talk politics in the open--especially in Bleiberg."

"What a diplomat you would make!" he cried with enthusiasm. Certainly this was a red-letter day in his calendar. This adventure almost equalled the other, and, besides, in this instance, his skin was dry; he could enjoy it more thoroughly. Who could this unknown be? "If only you understood the mystery with which you have enshrouded yourself!"

"I do." She drew the veil more firmly about her chin.

"Grant me a favor."

"I am talking to you, sir."

This candor did not disturb him. "The favor I ask is that you will lift the corner of your veil; otherwise you will haunt me."

"I am doomed to haunt you, then. If I should lift the corner of my veil something terrible would happen."

"What! Are you as beautiful as that?"

There was a flash of teeth behind the veil, followed by the ripple of soft laughter. "It is difficult to believe you to be English. You are more like one of those absurd Americans."

Maurice did not like the adjective. "I am one of them," wondering what the effect of this admission would be. "I am not English, but of the brother race. Forgive me if I have imposed on you, but it was your fault. You said that I was English, and I was too lonesome to enlighten you."

"You are an American?" She began to tap her gloved fingers against the table.

"Yes."

Then, to his astonishment, she gave way to laughter, honest and hearty.

"How dense of me not to have known the moment you addressed me! Who but the American holds in scorn custom's formalities and usages? Your grammar is good, so good that my mistake is pardonable. The American is always like the terrible infant; and you are a choice example."

Maurice was not so pleased as he might have been. His ears burned.

Still, he went forward bravely. "A man never pretends to be an Englishman without getting into trouble."

"I did not ask to speak to you. No one ever pretends to be an American.

Why is it you are always ashamed of your country?" with malice aforethought.

Maurice experienced the sting of many bees. "I see that your experience is limited to impostors. I, Mademoiselle, am proud of my country, the great, free land which stands aside from the turmoil and laughs at your petty squabbles, your kings, your princes. Laugh at me; I deserve it for not minding my own business, but do not laugh at my country." His face was flushed; he was almost angry. It was not her words; it was the contempt with which she had invested them. But immediately he was ashamed of his outburst. "Ah, Mademoiselle, you have tricked me; you have found the vulnerable part in my armor. I have spoken like a child.

Permit me to apologize for my apparent lack of breeding." He rose, bowed, and made as though to depart.

"Sit down, Monsieur," she said, picking up her French again. "I forgive you. I do more; I admire. I see that your freak had nothing behind it but mischief. No woman need fear a man who colors when his country is made the subject of a jest."

All his anger evaporated. This was an invitation, and he accepted it. He resumed his seat.

"The truth is, as I remarked, I was lonesome. I know that I have committed a transgression, but the veil tempted me."

"It is of no matter. A few moments, and you will be gone. I am waiting for some one. You may talk till that person comes." Her voice was now in its natural tone; and he was convinced that if her face were half as sweet, she must possess rare beauty. "Hush!" as the band began to breathe forth Chopin's polonaise. They listened until the music ceased.

"Ah!" said he rapturously, "the polonaise! When you hear it, does there not recur to you some dream of bygone happy hours, the sibilant murmur of fragrant night winds through the crisp foliage, the faint call of Diana's horn from the woodlands, moon-fairies dancing on the spider-webs, the glint of the dew on the roses, the far-off music of the surges tossing impotently on the sands, the forgetfulness of time and place and care, and not a cloud 'twixt you and the heavens? Ah, the polonaise!"

"Surely you must be a poet!" declared the Veil, when this panegyric was done.

"No," said he modestly, "I never was quite poor enough for that exalted position." He had recovered his good humor.

"Indeed, you begin to interest me. What is your occupation when not in search of--comic operas?"