“To be out there among the silver bean-fields!” he said. “Yes, Yousef,” she sighed, starting at a Triton’s face among the trailing ivy on the castle wall. Beneath it, half concealed by water-flags, lay a miniature lake: as a rule now, nobody went near the lake at all, since the Queen had called it ‘_appallingly smelly_,’ so that, for rendezvous, it was quite ideal. “Tell me, Yousef,” she presently said, pausing to admire the beautiful shadow of an orange-tree on the path before them: “tell me, dear, when Life goes like that to one--what does one do!!” He shrugged. “Usually nothing,” he replied, the tip of his tongue (like the point of a blade) peeping out between his teeth. “Ah, but isn’t that being strong?” she said half-audibly, fixing her eyes as though fascinated upon his lips. “Why,” he demanded with an engaging smile that brought half-moons to his hollow cheeks: “What has the world been doing to Rara?” “At this instant, Yousef,” she declared, “it brings her nothing but Joy!” “You’re happy, my sweet, with me?” “No one knows, dearest, how much I love you.” “Kiss me, Rara,” he said again. “Bend, then,” she answered, as the four quarters of the twelve strokes of midnight rang out leisurely from the castle clock. “I’ve to go to the Ritz!” he announced. “And _I_ should be going in.” Retracing reluctantly their steps they were soon in earshot of the ball, and their close farewells were made accompanied by selections from _The Blue Banana_. She remained a few moments gazing as though entranced at his retreating figure, and would have, perhaps, run after him with some little capricious message, when she became aware of someone watching her from beneath the shadow of a garden vase. Advancing steadily and with an air of nonchalance, she recognised the delicate, sexless silhouette and slightly hunched shoulders of Olga Blumenghast, whose exotic attraction had aroused not a few heartburnings (and even feuds) among several of the grandes dames about the court. Poised flatly against the vases’ sculptured plinth, she would have scarcely have been discernible, but for the silver glitter of her gown. “Olga? Are you faint?” “No; only my slippers are _torture_.” “I’d advise you to change them, then!” “It’s not altogether my feet, dear, that ache....” “Ah, I see,” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi said, stooping enough to scan the stormy, soul-tossed eyes of her friend: “you’re suffering, I suppose on account of Ann-Jules?” “He’s such a gold-fish, Rara ... any fingers that will throw him bread....” “And there’s no doubt, I’m afraid, that lots do!” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi answered lucidly, sinking down by her side. “I would give all my soul to him, Rara ... my chances of heaven!” “Your chances, Olga----” Mademoiselle de Nazianzi murmured, avoiding some bird-droppings with her skirt. “How I envy _the men_, Rara, in his platoon!” “Take away his uniform, Olga, and what does he become?” “Ah _what_----!”