"I'm afraid I haven't time. My business is to wander round and look after the wallflowers and more bashful dancers. Let me take your arm. You can accompany me." A pretty woman on my arm gave me the confidence I lacked. "Fräulein von Graffenfried! Monsieur Vignerte!" The voice of Marçais. The last word in elegance, he was sitting near the Grand Duchess. Great Heavens! He beckoned to me to go up. "Can't we ever get hold of you?" he said, laughing. "Here, monsieur." He presented me to the Grand Duchess. "It was partly for your sake, Madame, that I brought Monsieur Vignerte here. But you seem in no hurry to use the gifts we offer." She replied casually: "I? My wish is nothing better than to know Monsieur Vignerte. I am told he is charming. You must forgive me, monsieur, if I say 'I am told.' I have hitherto had no chance of judging for myself. You work very hard, I understand." The same words as Melusine had used. Oh, the shame of it! Was I _always_ to wear the pedant's gown? Was I always to be the man who "worked very hard," I, whose nights were passed in dreams of a voluptuousness that none suspected? I was going to reply. I think I was going to tell that haughty creature the plain truth. But she rose. "Excuse me! I must dance--at any rate, once! Herr von Hagen," she called. The little red Hussar was there. He came forward, humble but radiant. I knew a day would come when I should box his ears! A space had been cleared on the floor. The Grand Duchess Aurora's dance seemed to be a maëlstrom from which the dancers turned aside lest they be drawn in. They waltzed at first the slow German waltz in three time. Then the measure quickened, changing to two beats in the bar. It was no longer even the boston, but a wild, harmonious whirling. A murmur of admiration went up. The Grand Duke Frederick-Augustus looked on with a smile which was almost a smile of triumph. It was not Hagen, elegant and accomplished though he was, who set the pace, but the tall green and white form. Round and round she went, listless as ever. Hagen let himself be carried along. An ecstatic flush suffused his fair, boyish face. He was as clay in the hands of his Sovereign. Red, green, red, green, then a blur. The complementary colours appeared. They turned, turned, turned... In France we should have clapped. She went back to her place a drooping lily. As she adjusted her right shoulder-strap, she let fall the lovely bouquet of purple iris which she had been carrying. I rushed forward and picked it up. "Thank you, monsieur," she said casually. Then, this time voluntarily, she dropped them again. Good Lord! they were already faded. * * * * * * I went back to my room, opened the window, and, gazing out at the cold stars, drank the dregs of humiliation. I understood. She felt a hopeless antipathy to me. What was it? What had I done? I didn't know. The outcast's motto came back to me: "To work!"