affair, and also the principal actor in this extravaganza, suppose
you take the bed and leave me the lounge? And the deuce take the
duchess, who is probably a woman with a high forehead and a pair of
narrow eyes!" He threw down his napkin and made for the lounge, without
giving any particular attention to the smile and frown which were
struggling in the Englishman's eyes. In less than a minute Maurice was
dozing.

Fitzgerald thought that the best thing he could do was to follow the
philosophical example of his friend. "These Americans," he mused, as he
arranged the pillow under his ear, "are `fifteen puzzles'; you can move
them, or you can't."

As for Maurice, he was already dreaming; he was too tired to sleep.
Presently he thought he was on a horse again, and was galloping,
galloping. He was heading his old company to the very fringe of the
alkali. The Apaches had robbed the pay train and killed six men, and
the very deuce was to pay all around.... Again he was swimming, and a
beautiful girl reached out a hand and saved him. Ah! how beautiful she
was, how soft and rich the deep brown of her eyes!... The scene shifted.
The president of the South American republic had accepted his sword
(unbeknown to the United States authorities), and he was aiding to quell
the insurrection. And just then some one whispered to him that gold
would rise fifty points. And as he put out his hands to gather in the
glittering coins which were raining down, the face of Colonel Beauvais
loomed up, scowling and furious.... And yet again came the beautiful
girl. He was holding her hand and the archbishop had his spread out in
benediction over their heads.... A hand, which was not of dreamland,
shook him by the arm. He opened his eyes. Fitzgerald was standing over
him. The light of the sun spangled the walls opposite the windows. The
clock marked the eleventh hour of day.

"Hang you!" he said, with blinking eyes; "why didn't you let me be?
I was just marrying the princess, and you've spoiled it all. I--" He
jumped to his feet and rubbed his eyes, and, forgetful of all save his
astonishment, pursed his lips into a low whistle.

CHAPTER IX. NOTHING MORE SERIOUS THAN A HOUSE PARTY

Standing just within the door, smiling and rubbing the gray bristles
on his lip, was the Colonel. In the center of the room stood a
woman dressed in gray. Maurice recognized the dress; it belonged to
Mademoiselle of the Veil, who was now sans veil, sans hat. A m