There was still some time before dinner, so he walked about, with his hands in his pockets, and viewed the four walls of his room.  He examined the paints and admired the collection of blood-thirsty old weapons over the mantel, but with the indirect interest of a man who is thinking of other things.  At the end, he paused before the window, which, like the one in Breitmann’s room, afforded a clear outlook to the open waters.  Night was already mistress of the sea; and below, the village lights twinkled from various points.

Laura tried on three gowns, to the very great surprise of her maid.  Usually her mistress told her in the morning what to lay out for dinner.  Here there were two fine-looking young men about, and yet she was for selecting the simplest gown of the three.  The little French maid did not understand the reason, nor at that moment could her mistress have readily explained.  It was easy to dress for the critical eyes of rich young men, officers, gentlemen with titles; all that was required was a fresh Parisian model, some jewels, and a bundle of orchids or expensive roses.  But these two men belonged to a class she knew little of; gentlemen adventurers, who had been in strange, unfrequented places, who had helped to make history, who received decorations, and never wore them, who remained to the world at large obscure and unknown.

So, with that keen insight which is a part of a well-bred, intelligent woman—­and also rather inexplicable to the male understanding—­she chose the simplest gown.  She was hazily conscious that they would notice this dress, whereas the gleaming satin would have passed as a matter of fact.  Round her graceful throat she placed an Indian turquoise necklace; nothing in her hair, nothing on her fingers.  She went down-stairs perfectly content.

As she came into the hall, she heard soft music.  Some one was in the music-room, which was just off the library.  She stopped to listen.  Chopin, with light touch and tender feeling.  Which of the two wanderers was it?  Quietly, she moved along to the door.  Breitmann; she rather expected to find him.  Nearly all educated Germans played.  The music stopped for a moment, then resumed.  Another melody followed, a melody she had heard from one end of France to the other.  She frowned, not with displeasure, but with puzzlement.  For what purpose did a soldier of the German empire play the battle hymn of the French republic? The Marseillaise?  She entered the music-room, and the low but vibrant chords ceased instantly.  Breitmann had been playing these melodies standing.  He turned quickly.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, but perfectly free from embarrassment.

“I am very fond of music myself.  Please play whenever the mood comes to you. The Marseillaise—­”

“Ah!” he interrupted, laughing.  “There was a bit of traitor in my fingers just then.  But music should have no country; it should be universal.”