“Now, what the devil is the Dutchman doing with a pair of opera-glasses!”

It required some time and patience to discover the object of this singular attention on the part of Grumbach.  Carmichael was finally convinced that this object was no less a person than her serene highness!

Later her highness stood before one of the long windows in the conservatory, listlessly watching the people in the square.  And these poor fools envied her!  To envy her, who was a prisoner, a chattel to be exchanged for war’s immunity, who was a princess in name but a cipher in fact!  All was wrong with the world.  She had stolen out of the ball-room; the craving to be alone had been too strong.  Little she cared whether they missed her or not.  She left the window and sat on one of the divans, idly opening and shutting her fan.  Was that some one coming for her?  She turned.

It was Carmichael.

What an opportunity for scandal!  She laughed inwardly.  The barons and their wives, the ambassadors’ wives and their daughters, would miss them both.  And the spirit of deviltry lay also upon her heart.  She smiled at the man and with her fan bade him be seated at her side.  The divinity that hedges in a king did not bother either of them just then.

“You have not asked me to dance to-night,” she declared.

“I know it.”

“Why?”

“I am neither a prince nor an ambassador.”

“But you have danced with me.”

“Yes; I have been to Heaven now and then.”

“And do you eject yourself thus easily?”

“By turning myself out my self-esteem remains unruffled.”

“Then you expected to be turned out?”

“Sooner or later.”

“Why?”

Again that word!  To him it was the most tantalizing word in the language.  It crucified him.

“Why?” she repeated, her eyes soft and dreamy.

“As I have said, I am not a prince.  I am only a consul, not even a diplomat, simply a business arm of my government.  My diplomacy never ascends above the quality of hops and wines imported.  I am supposed to take in any wandering sailor, feed him, and ship him home.  I am also the official guide of all American tourists.”

“That is no reason.”

“Your father—­” He should have said the grand duke.

“Ah, yes; my father, the chancellor, the ambassadors, and their wives and daughters!  I begin to believe that you have grown afraid of them.”

“I confess that I have.  I had an adventure last night.  Would you like to hear about it?”

How beautiful she was in that simple gown of white, unadorned by any jewels save the little crown of sparkling white stones in her hair!

“Tell me.”

He was a good story-teller.  It was a crisp narrative he made.

“A veiled lady,” she mused.  “What would you say if I told you that your mystery is no mystery at all?  I am the veiled lady.  And the person I went to see was my old nurse, my foster-mother, with whom I spent the happiest, freest days of my life, in the garret at Dresden.  Pouf!  All mysteries may be dispelled if we go to the right person.  So you are to be recalled?”