Monsieur Auguste Labotte adjusted his tie. Then he slid elegantly into the pink dress-coat which the servant was holding, told the man offensively to be gone and assumed a courtly pose before the pier-glass. After a careful survey of his points, he clicked his heels, bowed low, took on a jaunty air and, clasping an imaginary partner proceeded to shake his shoulders with every circumstance of abandon. . . He was in the act of kissing his finger-tips—a delicious, careless gesture, by which the fragrant caress was apparently tossed into the air to wreak who knows what havoc, when he observed that the symmetry of his eyebrows left something to be desired. Simultaneously he remembered that his aggrandizement of the left had been interrupted and never resumed. He repaired the omission delicately. . . . Again he reverted to the pier-glass, to be inspected. This time his scrutiny could find no fault in him. Here was Chivalry _allegro_. The rude paraphernalia of virility had been doffed: the hardy victor of the field was turning to tenderer, more luscious conquests. With a happy sigh, Labotte reflected that, disguise it as he would, his sportsmanship emerged always. No one could miss it. If anyone did—well, that was what the pink coat was for. He opened the door of his room and descended thoughtfully. . . . The _salon rose_ was crowded. Two pretty Englishwomen were sitting on the club-kerb, sipping cocktails and exchanging back-chat with a handsome jolly-eyed Frenchman and a tall Italian, whose manner suggested that he might adorn diplomacy. As a matter of fact, he had. A Frenchwoman of great beauty was relating her impressions of the Trooping of the Colour and lending both English and ceremony a peculiar charm. Two Englishmen, soldiers, were listening delightedly. A jovial, broad-shouldered Spaniard was vividly recounting his prowess upon the tennis-court and throwing his hearers into convulsions of mirth. A well-set-up Frenchman, one-armed, was lighting a cigarette: this belonged to an Italian lady: between the two of them the simple attention put on the courtly livery of a forgotten age. A tall American girl, with grave grey eyes and a proud mouth, was standing close to an alcove. A common, unhealthy-looking youth, with a loose lip and an aggressive stare was expelling smoke from his nostrils and languidly conversing with Count Boschetto, a stout, nervous little man, with vacant eyes and an everlasting smile. The latter was most deferential and was working extremely hard. Six or eight other guests were about their striving host, listening greedily to the youth and thrusting toothsome banalities into the discussion, as though in the hope of attracting attention to themselves. From the alcove, heaving with emotion, the Countess was surveying the scene with a beatific smile. Her proportions were immense: her splendour, barbaric. Her snow-white hair was almost hidden beneath an enormous tiara, while the