In the first place, he saw the indefinable but unmistakable indications of a more virile, more decided personality in Pierre, in his looks, in his features, in his gestures and attitude. His former _farouche_ timidity had yielded to the proud reserve that the certainty of being loved gives to some delicate, romantic natures. Next he noted the principal, the infallible sign of secret happiness, the expression of tender ecstasy that seemed to lurk in the depths of his eyes, and a constant faraway look. Never had Olivier noticed this abstraction in their former conversations. Never had Pierre's thoughts been in other climes while his friend spoke. Lovers are all alike. They speak to you. You speak to them. They know not what to say, nor do they hear you. Their soul is elsewhere. At this moment Pierre's thoughts were upon the deck of a yacht illumined by the moonbeams; upon the staircase of an old Italian palace; in the patio of the Villa Helmholtz, far away from the little table of the hotel dining-room; far away from Madame du Prat, upon whom he forgot to attend; far away from Olivier, whom he no longer even saw! And then Olivier noticed tiny details of masculine adornment, little nothings which disclosed the tender coquetting of a mistress who would not have her lover make a gesture without being reminded of her by some caressing souvenir. Pierre wore a ring upon his little finger that his friend had never seen, two golden serpents interlaced, with emerald heads. A St. George medal, which he did not recognize, was hanging to his watch-chain. In taking out his handkerchief it gave forth a delicate perfume that Pierre had never formerly used. Olivier had been engaged in too many intrigues to be mistaken for an instant about any of these evidences of feminine influence. They were only additional proofs. They simply confirmed the change he had noticed in Pierre's inexplicable acquaintance with Corancez, in his liking for cosmopolitan society, in the unexpected frivolity of his mode of life, in his evident sympathy for things at Cannes that Olivier had expected would have most shocked his friend. How was it possible not to put these facts together? How was it possible not to draw the conclusion from them that Pierre was in love? But with whom? Did the energy with which he had attacked the Archduke prove that he loved Madame de Carlsberg? Had he not defended Madame de Chésy with the same energy? Had he not equally warmly sung the praises of Madame Bonnacorsi's beauty, of Miss Marsh's grace?