Again the dapper director came forward to lead the musicians, and again he was most enthusiastically received.  His uniform fairly sparkled with the thrill of vanity, which seemed to burst from every seam; his sword clanked madly against his nimble legs as he bowed and scraped his grateful recognition of the honour.  This time Chase was not where he could watch the Princess; he found, therefore, that he could devote his attention to the music and the popular conductor.  He was amazed to find that the fellow seemed to be inspired; he was also surprised to find himself carried away by the fervour of the moment.

With the final crash of the orchestra, he found himself shouting again with the others; oddly, this time he was as mad as they.  A score or more of surprised, disapproving eyes were turned upon him when he yelled “Encore!”

“There will be no encore,” admonished the fair girl at his side, kindly.  “It is not New York,” she added, with a sly smile.

Ten minutes later, Chase and the Englishman were lighting their cigars in an obscure corner of the gardens, off in the shadows where the circle of light spent itself among the trees.

“Extraordinarily beautiful,” Chase murmured reflectively, as he seated himself upon the stone railing along the drive.

“Yes, they say he really wrote it himself,” drawled Baggs, puffing away.

“I’m not talking about the music,” corrected Chase sharply.

“Oh,” murmured Baggs, apologetically.  “The night?”

“No!  The Princess, Baggs.  Haven’t you noticed her?” with intense sarcasm in his tone.

“Of course, I have, old chap.  By Jove, do you know she is good-looking—­positively ripping.”

The concert over, people began strolling into the more distant corners of the huge garden, down the green-walled walks and across the moonlit terraces.  For a long time, the two men sat moodily smoking in their dark nook, watching the occasional passers-by; listening to the subdued laughter and soft voices of the women, the guttural pleasantries of the men.  They lazily observed the approach of one couple, attracted, no doubt, by the disparity in the height of the two shadows.  The man was at least half a head shorter than his companion, but his ardour seemed a thousandfold more vast.  Chase was amused by the apparent intensity of the small officer’s devotion, especially as it was met with a coldness that would have chilled the fervour of a man much larger and therefore more timid.  It was impossible to see the faces of the couple until they passed through a moonlit streak in the walk, quite close at hand.

Chase started and grasped his companion’s arm.  One was the Princess Genevra and—­was it possible?  Yes, the nimble conductor!  The sensation of the hour—­the musical lion!  Moreover, to Chase’s cold horror, the “little freak” was actually making violent love to the divinity of Rapp-Thorberg!

There was no doubt of it now.  The Princess and her escort—­the plebeian upstart—­were quite near at hand, and, to the dismay of the smokers, apparently were unaware of their presence in the shadows.  Chase’s heart was boiling with disappointed rage.  His idol had fallen, from a tremendous height to a depth which disgusted him.