“Neville!” she cried, before recovering her presence of mind. “Captain Moray! How--how are you here?” “As naturally as you are yourself--madame. I, too, have the honor of being counted a friend in this hospitable house. Moreover, I have just been appointed Military Attaché to the British Embassy here.” She winced. Good Heavens! What could they mean in England by sending this young man, of all people in the world, to Paris, where she, the Princess Palitzin, intended to make her home for several months out of every year! “Indeed!” she said, with passably assumed indifference. “I congratulate you.” “Thank you! I am rather young for the post, of course, but my uncle....” “It is always agreeable to have friends at Court,” she retorted, and felt horribly vexed at the difficulty she experienced in giving vent to this platitude. She had much to learn, had this Princess out of a fairy-tale--not hardened as yet to the world’s surprises, not controlled enough, alas! to dissemble convincingly the wild agitation his sudden appearance caused her. Her Neville! The boy she had loved--as far, at least, as she was capable of loving. Her restless eyes scanned the flower-filled enfilade of salons, and dwelt for an instant upon her husband, who, with “Antinoüs” in tow, was returning from the smoking-room. Basil’s personality was of those that impose themselves upon any _milieu_. Patrician to his finger-tips, elegant--in the delicate French sense of this word so misused by foreigners--a full head taller than most of the men there, he was a Prince to be proud of, a Prince Charming--as Marguerite had once called him--in every possible respect. Why then did she feel her throat contract at the realization that she was, after all was said and done, his irrevocably, and that Neville Moray was henceforth but a figment of the days that had gone? Basil certainly dwarfed his neighbors; she could not help admitting it to herself; and yet the English guardsman was good to look at, too, and had, moreover, an advantage over him to-night--he was in uniform, the _soirée_ being a semi-official affair--and to a woman a uniform always appeals, especially when worn by men as manly as Moray. To Laurence, so enamoured of pomp and show, it appealed doubly. Fortunately for her, Marguerite came toward her at that moment. “Laurence,” she said, “the Dowager would like to know you.” “The Dowager?” Laurence said, slowly, her lips still trembling a little. “The old Duchesse de Montemare,” the “Gamin” explained. “You know she is the arbiter _par excellence_ of our coterie. Will you come and be presented?” Then catching sight of the Captain, she turned to him with a smile of welcome. “Good evening, Captain Moray. I had not seen you enter.” “I have been trying for ten minutes to approach you, mademoiselle, but you were _quite_ unapproachable,” he explained, bending low before her. “I have, however, been happy enough to pay my respects to your father.”