"Perhaps I was, for half a second," she confessed. "But your grand manner soon put me in one mind." John also laughed. He took a turn backwards and forwards. "I have waked in the dead of night, and grown hot and cold to remember the figure of fun I was." "No," said Maria Dolores, to console him. "You weren't a figure of fun. Your costume had the air of being an impromptu, but," she laughed, "your native dignity shone through." "Thank you," said John, bowing. "The next time I saw you was that same afternoon. You were with Annunziata in the avenue. I carried my vision of you, like a melody, all the way to Roccadoro-and all the way home again." "I had just made Annunziata's acquaintance," said Maria Dolores. "You had a white sunshade and a lilac frock," said John. "The next time was that night in the moonlight. You were all in white, with a scarf of white lace over your hair. You threw me a white rose from your balcony--and I have carried that rose with me ever since." "I threw you a white rose?" doubted Maria Dolores, looking up, at fault. "Yes," said John. "Have you forgotten it?" "I certainly have," said she, with emphasis. "You threw me a smile that was like a white rose," said he. She laughed. "I think I just distantly acknowledged your bow," she said. "Well, some people's distant acknowledgments are like white roses," said he. "I hope, at least, you remember what a glorious night it was, and how the nightingales were singing?" "Yes," said she. "I remember that." "I have a fancy," he declared, "that it will be a more glorious night still to-night, and that the nightingales will sing better than they have ever sung before." Maria Dolores did not speak. "Do you happen," John asked, after a long silence, while they gazed at the deepening colours in the west, "do you happen to possess such a thing as a copy of the Almanach de Gotha?" "Yes," said she. "Really? I wonder whether you will lend it to me?" "I am sorry--it is in Vienna." And after an instant's pause, she ventured, "What, if it isn't indiscreet to inquire, do you wish to look up?" "I wish to look up a lady--a dream lady--a lady who walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes--and whose pocket-handkerchiefs are embroidered with the initials M.D., in a cypher, under a princely crown." "I should think," said Maria Dolores, considering, "that she would probably be a member of one of the mediatised princely houses. But if you have nothing more than her initials to go by, you would find it difficult to trace her in the Almanach de Gotha." "No doubt," said John. "But to a man of spirit a difficulty is a challenge." "Do you make a practice," asked she, "of appropriating people's handkerchiefs?" "Certain people's--yes," unblushing, he promptly owned. "M.D. under a princely crown, I think you said?" she mused. "It occurs to me that Maria Dolores of Zelt-Neuminster's pocket-handkerchiefs might be so embroidered."