s like the Field of the Cloth of Gold, and it lasted for a whole
month. I sometimes wondered why, among the great number of ladies
present, there should not be Mademoiselle Capello and Madame Riano;
and one summer afternoon, my question was answered, for rolling along
the highway, toward a fine country mansion, where many guests were
entertained, I saw a splendid traveling coach, well horsed and with
outriders. The liveries were not the purple and canary of Madame
Riano, but a superb crimson and gold. In this coach sat Madame Riano,
and by her side, Francezka Capello--Francezka, in the very flush and
flower of her exquisite beauty.

CHAPTER XVII

AN IMPATIENT LOVER

Why do I always call Mademoiselle Capello beautiful? I can not tell.
Her features were only tolerably regular, not even so regular as
Madame Riano's; but Francezka had on her eloquent face the power, if
not the substance, of the most dazzling loveliness. She put handsomer
women behind the door, at the mere look of her. Everything became her.
If she were splendidly appareled, that seemed the best and only dress
for her. If she rode a-horseback, with her hat and feather, that was
the right thing for her, and when she wore a simple linen gown and a
straw hat, we wondered how she could endure to wear any other costume.
That, I take it, is the essence of beauty--not that I am learned in
beauty, though I am an expert in ugliness.

The coach was stopped, and I hastened to pay my duty to the ladies.
Madame Riano's greeting was kind, Francezka's more than kind. They
were to be the guests of some great people at the fine mansion for
which they were bound, during the remainder of the camp--about a
fortnight longer. Madame Riano was disposed to grumble a little that
so many sovereigns and princes should waste their time in pageants
instead of using their arms to set Prince Charles Stuart upon the
throne of his ancestors; but otherwise she was reasonable enough.

Francezka looked scarcely a day older than when I had last seen her
two years and a half before. She leaned forward, out of the coach
door, one little red-heeled shoe showing coquettishly. A large straw
hat, fit for a woodland nymph to wear shaded her dark eyes, now soft,
now sparkling. She expressed many wishes to see much of me, and
reminded me, as did Madame Riano, that I was due at the chateau of
Capello on our return to France. Presently, the coach rolled away,
along the highroad, under the da