be a logical sequence on his side. He laughed again--with an
effort--and settled back in his chair to renew his interest in the
panorama revolving around him.

"They certainly know how to live in these countries," he thought,
"for all their comic operas. All I need, to have this fairy scene made
complete, is a woman to talk to. By George, what's to hinder me from
finding one?" he added, seized by the spirit of mischief. He turned
his head this way and that. "Ah! doubtless there is the one I'm looking
for."

Seated alone at a table behind him was a woman dressed in gray. Her
back was toward him, but he lost none of the beautiful contours of her
figure. She wore a gray alpine hat, below the rim of which rebellious
little curls escaped, curls of a fine red-brown, which, as they trailed
to the nape of the firm white neck, lightened into a ruddy gold. Her
delicate head was turned aside, and to all appearances her gaze was
directed to the entrance to the pavilion. A heavy blue veil completely
obscured her features; though Maurice could see a rose-tinted ear and
the shadow of a curving chin and throat, which promised much. To a man
there is always a mystery lurking behind a veil. So he rose, walked past
her, returned and deliberately sat down in the chair opposite to hers.
The fact that gendarmes moved among the crowd did not disturb him.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said, politely lifting his hat.

She straightened haughtily. "Monsieur," she said, resentment,
consternation and indignation struggling to predominate in her tones, "I
did not give you permission to sit down. You are impertinent!"

"O, no," Maurice declared. "I am not impertinent. I am lonesome. In all
Bleiberg I haven't a soul to talk to, excepting the hotel waiters, and
they are uninteresting. Grant me the privilege of conversing with you
for a moment. We shall never meet again; and I should not know you if we
did. Whether you are old or young, plain or beautiful, it matters not.
My only wish is to talk to a woman, to hear a woman's voice."

"Shall I call a gendarme, Monsieur, and have him search for your nurse?"
The attitude which accompanied these words was anything but assuring.

He, however, evinced no alarm. He even laughed. "That was good! We shall
get along finely, I am sure."

"Monsieur," she said, rising, "I repeat that I do not desire your
company, nor to remain in the presence of your unspeakable effrontery."

"I beseech you!" implored