“I am waiting for ladies,” he explained.  “I’ll see you again.”

“Sure you will.”  Harcourt paused.  “I dash up the Nile in the morning, going to do Karnak and Luxor—­you know, the usual stunt.  Been busy all day buying scarabs and mummied cats, but I want to see you sometime to-night.  By the way, I’ve heard something—­”

“All right.  See you later.”  Benton spoke hurriedly, for he had caught the flash of a slender figure in white on the stairs.

In the war of the confetti, man makes war on woman and woman on man, while over the field reigns a universal and democratic acquaintanceship.

Cara was on vacation, and a child—­bent on forgetting that to-morrow must come.  It was characteristic of her that she should enter into the spirit of the occasion with all the abandon it suggested.

Benton stood by as she gradually gave ground before the attacks of a stout, gray-templed Briton, a General of the Army of Occupation.  She fought gallantly, but he stood doggedly before her handfuls of confetti, shaking the paper chips out of his eyes and mustache like some invincible old St. Bernard, and her slender Mandarin-coated figure retreated slowly before his red and medal-decked jacket.

“Watch out!” cried Benton, who followed her retreat, forbidden by the rules of warfare from giving aid, other than counsel, “The British Army is putting you in a bad strategic position.”

She had retreated across the flower-beds and stood with her back to the rim of the fountain.  Her box of confetti was empty and Benton also was without ordnance supplies.

Young Harcourt suddenly stepped forward from the crowd.

“Here!” he cried with a smile of frank worship, as he tendered a fresh box of confetti.  “Take this and remember Bunker Hill!”

The British officer bowed.

“I surrender,” he said, “because you violate the rules of war.  Your confetti is not deadly and your tactics are mediocre, but your eyes use lyddite.”

Inside Cara went to her room to wrestle with the tiny chips of multi-colored paper that covered her and filled her hair.  In the hall, Harcourt came again to Benton.

“By Jove, she is a wonder,” he said.  Then he slipped his arm through Benton’s and led him aside.  The American followed supinely.

“Benton, do you remember the talk we had about Romance?”

Benton looked quickly up to forestall any possible personality to which he might object, but Harcourt continued.

“Do you know that chap, Martin—­he doesn’t call himself Browne now—­has turned up again?  He’s been here.  Not ragged this time, but well groomed and in high feather.  To-day he left to go back to Galavia.”

“Back to Galavia?” Benton repeated the words in astonishment.  “What do you mean?”

Harcourt laughed.  “The scales have turned and his Grand Duke is to be King after all.”

Benton seized the boy by the elbow and steered him into one of the empty writing-rooms.