“Good evening, colonel,” said Carmichael pleasantly.  “Why can’t your bandmaster give us light opera once in a while?”

The colonel pulled his mustache in chagrin, but he did not give Carmichael the credit for bringing about this cheapening sense.  For the time being Gretchen was freed from annoyance.  The colonel certainly could not rush off to her and give this keen-eyed American an opportunity to witness a further rebuff.

“Light operas are rare at present,” he replied, accepting his defeat amiably enough.

“Paris is full of them just now,” continued Carmichael.

“Paris?  Would you like a riot in the gardens?” asked the colonel, amused.

“A riot?” said Carmichael derisively.  “Why, nothing short of a bombshell would cause a riot among your phlegmatic Germans.”

“I believe you love your Paris better than your Dreiberg.”

“Not a bit of doubt.  And down in your heart you do, too.  Think of the lights, the theaters, the cafes and the pretty women!” Carmichael’s cane described a flourish as if to draw a picture of these things.

“Yes, yes,” agreed the colonel reminiscently; “you are right.  There is no other night equal to a Parisian night. Ach, Gott! But think of the mornings, think of the mornings!”—­dolefully.

“On the contrary, let us not think of them!”—­with a mock shudder.

And then a pretty woman rose from a chair near-by.  She nodded brightly at the colonel, who bowed, excused himself to Carmichael, and made off after her.

“I believe I stepped on his toe that time,” said Carmichael to himself.

Then he looked round for Gretchen.  She was still at the side of the policeman.  She had watched the scene between the two men, but was quite unconscious that it had been set for her benefit.  She came back.  Carmichael stepped confidently to her side and raised his hat.

“Did you get your geese together without mishap?” he asked.

The instinct of the child always remains with the woman.  Gretchen smiled.  This young man would be different, she knew.

“They were only frightened.  But his highness”—­eagerly—­“was he very angry?”

“Angry?  Not the least.  He was amused.  But he was nearly knocked off his horse.  If you lived in America now, you might reap a goodly profit from that goose.”

“America?  How?”

“You could put him in a museum and exhibit him as an intimate friend of the grand duke of Ehrenstein.”

But Gretchen did not laugh.  It was a serious thing to talk lightly of so grand a person as the duke.  Still, the magic word America, where the gold came from, flamed her curiosity.

“You are from America?”

“Yes.”

“Are you rich?”

“In fancy, in dreams”—­humorously.

“Oh!  I thought they were all rich.”

“Only one or two of us.”

“Is it very large, this America?”