The rest of the affair passed more rapidly. Adrian took Iría's hands as she came to him and kissed her on both cheeks. After that the others came and went, the superb swirl and current rushed on. Once only the eyes of Allard and Stanief met across the broad space, and if they exchanged wordless relief, they held no other feeling in common, for Stanief had never trusted nor understood his cousin less, while Allard had refound the Adrian he knew--the Adrian of evening drives and bitter-sweet kindness. In the departure from the cathedral there came a brief confusion and rearrangement. "You will ride with me," Adrian said to his late Regent, on the steps. "Sire--" "Take care; I am too new an autocrat for contradiction." So Iría went surrounded by her butterfly ladies, and Stanief rode by the Emperor's side during that bewildering return. In the streets there was no high-bred reserve; seeing him there, the capital went into a madness of enthusiasm. The rest of the day, the state banquet, passed in no less dazzling excitement. But in the midst of all Adrian found an instant to toss a word to Allard. "Is it 'almost,' or quite, to-day?" he demanded. Happy, dazed, uncomprehending yet content, Allard met the challenging eyes in an expressive glance; then for the first time in their years together, he impulsively stooped and touched his lips to the slim young hand. "Not at all, sire," he answered most remorsefully. Adrian's long lustrous eyes opened; perhaps no conquest of the day pleased him more. "Come to me at five o'clock," he directed, and passed on. Five o'clock. That hour had been generally accepted through the palace as the time when the Emperor would withdraw to snatch a brief rest before the celebrations of the night. From long custom Allard knew where the "come to me" signified, and very pleasant he found his return to the familiar routine. Somewhat before the time appointed, he went to the octagonal library, the room now flooded with quivering pink light from the approaching sunset. A man turned from a window at his entrance. "Ah, Monsieur Allard?" said Dalmorov's thin, cutting voice, "Pardon that I disturb you, dear monsieur, but the Emperor requested me to meet him here, and so--" Allard surveyed the lean and suave diplomat with his usual antagonism, but moved toward a chair instead of adopting the hint to retire. "I am here for the same reason, Baron," he explained. "A wonderful day we have had, have we not?" "Wonderful, indeed," Dalmorov conceded viciously. "But the ides of March have not gone, monsieur." "What a suggestion for our young Cæsar!" Allard deprecated. "Whom do you imagine as Brutus, Baron, in our peaceful Empire?" "You misunderstood; I only pointed out the uncertainty of building upon one day." Anxiety for Stanief stabbed Allard, always and only for Stanief. Yet his answer was light and sympathetic: "Has to-day disappointed you? So sorry, _chèr_ Baron."