They dined tete-a-tete. She had gorgeous apartments in the Elysee Palace Hotel; a private dining-room and a beautiful view of the great avenue. The evening was warm. The windows were open and from the outside came the noises of a Parisian night. A soft July moon lent radiance to an otherwise garish world, and a billion stars twinkled merrily. It seemed to Corky, as he looked up into the mellow dome, that he had never known the stars to twinkle so madly as they twinkled on this fateful night. There were moments of illusion when he was sure that the moon itself was twinkling. He laid it to his liver. The little gold clock on the mantelpiece was striking ten when he began clearing his throat for action. He always remembered that it was precisely ten o'clock, because he had to look intently at the diminutive face of the thing to make sure that it wasn't striking twenty or thirty. It seemed to go on forever. They were still in the dining-room and quite alone. For some uncanny reason the Grand Duchess had not giggled once since the coffee was served. She was ominously patient. "I've been thinking about what you said this afternoon," said Corky irrelevantly. She had just mentioned the weather. "Indeed?" "Yes. You put an idea into my head. Now, please don't say it! It's such a beastly banal joke, don't you know, that one about ideas. Would you mind answering a few questions?" She began fanning herself. "If possible, Mr. Van Winkle," she said. "But I can tell you in advance that I never tell any one my age." "Quite right," said he in a matter-of-fact tone. "It's nobody's business." He appeared to be thinking. "Well, go ahead and ask," said she. "I don't know just how to begin." "What is it you want to know?" she enquired encouragingly. "How old are your daughters?" "Oh!" she exclaimed, leaning back in her chair in a sort of collapse. "What do you want to know that for?" "Well, I'm leading up to something else, if you must know." She brightened up a bit. "They're rather young, of course." "Naturally," said he. "But HOW young?" "Mary is--let me see--I can't just recollect--" "You needn't be afraid to tell me the truth," he said graciously. "It won't make the least difference." "Well, Mary is thirty-three. She's the married one. Edith--" "Is one of 'em married?" he exclaimed, his face clouding. "She's divorced at present. She married a scamp in the East who wanted her for her money, and--" "Never mind," interrupted Corky hastily. "I don't care to hear the family scandal. Where does she live?" "New York City, most of the time. You may have seen her. She goes out a great deal, I hear: I'm not certain whether she's gone back to her maiden name or retains her ex-husband's. His name is Smith." "I see," said Corky, abstractedly. "Good looking?" "Mary? Yes, indeed. Stunning. I'm sure you'll admire her, Mr. Van Winkle." "I wish you'd call me Courtney."