The dinner was done, and they moved out on the terrace. The moon had chased the stars, the Concha glittered with lights, and before the hotel a crowd circled in indolent coils as though wearied with the holiday. There were many people, too, on the terrace, and in passing from the dining-room the little party, either by accident or design, got cut in twain. For the first time since the spring evening, Maida and Lenox were alone. Their solitude, it is true, was public, but that mattered little. Maida utilized the earliest moment by asking her companion how he got there. “You should not have spoken to me,” she added, before he could have answered. “Maida!” “No, you must go, you--” “But I only came to find you,” he whispered. “To find me? How did you know where I was?” “The _Morning News_ told me. I was in Paris, on my way to Baden, for I heard you were there, and then, of course, when I saw in the paper that you were here, I followed after.” “Then you are not going to Andalucia?” “No, not unless you do.” The girl wrung her hand. “Oh, Lenox, do go away!” “I can’t, nor do you wish it. You must let me see you. I will come to you to-morrow--he has an excellent voice, not so full as Gayarré’s, but his method is better.” Mr. Incoul had suddenly approached them, and as suddenly Lenox’s tone had changed. To all intents and purposes he was relating the merits of a tenor. “The carriage is here,” said Maida’s husband, “we must be going; I am sorry we can’t offer you a seat, Mr. Leigh, we are a trifle crowded as it is.” “Thank you, you are very kind. The train will take me safely enough.” He walked with them to the carriage, and aided Maida to enter it. Karl, who had been standing at the door, mounted to the box. When all were seated, Mr. Incoul added: “You must come and see us.” “Yes, come and see us, too,” Blydenburg echoed. “By the way, where are you stopping?” “I shall be glad to do so,” Lenox answered; “I am at the Grand.” He raised his hat and wished them a pleasant drive. The moon was shining full in his face, and Miss Blydenburg thought him even handsomer than Mazzantini. His good wishes were answered in chorus, Karl nudged the driver, and in a moment the carriage swept by and left him standing in the road. “What a nice, frank fellow he is,” Blydenburg began; “so different from the general run of young New Yorkers. There, I forgot to tell him I knew his sister; I am sorry, it would have seemed sort of friendly, made him feel more at home, don’t you think? Not but that he seemed perfectly at his ease as it was. I wonder why he doesn’t marry? None of those Leighs have money, have they? He could pick up an heiress, though, in no time, if he wanted to. Perhaps he prefers to be a bachelor. If he does I don’t blame him a bit, a good-looking young fellow--”