He made a second attempt to light his cigarette, and this time with success. He blew out a great puff of blue smoke and gazed earnestly into its unravelling depths. And for a prolonged minute of self-hypnotism he was dematerialised out of the picturesque uniform of a Grimland officer, and was standing, smug and frock-coated, in a New York drawing-room. Before him was a very tall woman with a wonderfully correct profile and an abundance of honey-coloured hair. This was the creature to whom he had offered the worship of his life, the woman whose refusal of his suit had thrust him to the very brink of the grim precipice of which no man knoweth the bottom. He gazed and gazed and even admired--but he was unmoved. Slowly the smoke faded, and the dream in the smoke, and he laughed aloud. Self-analysis is a difficult game for all, and to one of his complex temperament an altogether hopeless proceeding. And so, as if to blow the crowded thoughts from his brain, he stepped to his high window overlooking the city, and flung open the casement. The bells of the cathedral were pealing joyous music into the winter air. The city was _en fête_. The flag of Grimland was flying from all public and semi-public buildings. Shops, private houses, and hotels were gay with bunting and festoons of artificial flowers. And the sun,--as if to honour the new dynasty with its more than royal majesty,--was gilding men's handiwork till tinsel became silver and gold, and every banner a brave thing of joy and colour and heartfelt holiday. Within two days of the supposed death of Karl the new dynasty was to be inaugurated with all the pomp that State and Church could lend the occasion.