“You are ill, _mademoiselle_?” “No, no; I assure you.” “Is there nothing I can do?” Another light pressure on the Count’s resplendent sleeve. “Remember, _monsieur le comte_,” she said, “that he who would serve well must yield blindly. You wish to serve well?” The speech was accompanied by another adroit smile, before which the Count retired utterly routed--horse, foot and dragoons. “_Pardi! mademoiselle_,” he answered with effusion, “to hear you is for me to obey. It shall be as you will.” He accordingly conducted her to the conservatory--an immense structure of great length and breadth, resembling more a miniature park than a place ordinarily designated under the name of conservatory. Here and there tropical trees and massive plants stretched their foliage in wide, overhanging branches; there were by-paths and niches and bowers in the winding gardens; and at intervals fountains, under whose limpid waters flashed golden fishes, gushed forth amid the violets and the roses. It was a dream of floral splendor--such opulence and magnificence as had never been dreamed even by luxurious Eastern potentates of the olden days. It was the Western world saying to the Eastern: “You bragged in the old days of your Oriental sumptuousness and luxury, but yours was only a poor affair, after all! See what we can do, with modern money and modern methods!” Into this great garden of the King, Count D’Arville led Dorothy. He escorted her to a secluded spot under the branches of a Taribou tree and with numerous bows and protestations left her. When, at the close of the dance a few minutes later, he returned to her side, she rewarded him with a gracious smile. “You’ve been of great service to me, _monsieur le comte_,” she said. “Now, please take me back. I am engaged for the next waltz--the fourth, you know. Ah, I have one other service to ask of you!” “It is, _mademoiselle_?” “The dance after that--after the fourth waltz, I mean--I have promised to Lord Ashley. Will you kindly tell Lord Ashley that he will find me in the conservatory--at this spot?” Count D’Arville bowed. “I will bear your commands to Milord Ashley,” he said, “but after zat--later on--may I not have my lost dance?” A weary look came into her face. “After that--after Lord Ashley--I’ll dance no more to-night,” she said. “But,” she hastened to add, “I’ll make it up to you. At the ball next week you shall have two.” Quite elated with this promise, the gallant Count reluctantly surrendered her to her partner for the fourth waltz, Captain Stanley Mortimer.