twenty-two or twenty-three years of age—­not a minute older.  I think her eyes are a very dark grey, almost blue.  Her skin is like a—­a—­oh, let me see, what is there that’s as pure and soft as her skin?  Something warm, and pink, and white, d’ye see?  Well, never mind.  And her smile!  And her frown!  You know, I’ve seen both of ’em, and one’s as attractive as the other.  She’s a real princess, gentlemen, and the prettiest woman I’ve ever laid my eyes upon.  And to think of her as the wife of that blithering little ass—­that nincompoop of a Karl Brabetz!  She loathes him, I’m sure—­I know she does.  And she’s got to marry him!  That’s what she gets for being a Grand Duke’s daughter.  Brabetz is the heir apparent to some duchy or other over there and is supposed to be the catch of the season.  You’ve heard of him.  He was in Paris this season and cut quite a figure—­a prince with real money in his purse, you know.  I wonder why it is that our American girls can’t marry the princes who have money instead of those who have none.  Not that I wish any of our girls such bad luck as Brabetz!  I’ll stake my head he’ll never forget me!” Chase concluded with a sharp, reflective laugh in which his hearers joined, for the escapade which inspired it was being slyly discussed in every embassy in Europe by this time, but no one seemed especially loth to shake Chase’s hand on account of it.

But to return:  the advent of the Princess put fresh life into the slowgoing city and court circles.  Charming people, whom Chase had never seen before, seemed to spring into existence suddenly; the streets took on a new air; the bands played with a keener zest and the army prinked itself into a most amazingly presentable shape.  Officers with noble blood in their veins stepped out of the obscurity of months; swords clanked merrily instead of dragging slovenly at the heels of their owners; uniforms glistened with a new ambition, and the whole atmosphere of Thorberg underwent a change so startling that Chase could hardly believe his senses.  He lifted up his chin, threw out his chest, banished the look of discontent from his face and announced to himself that Thorberg was not such a bad place after all.

For days he swung blithely through the streets, the hang-dog look gone from his eyes, always hoping for another glimpse of the fair sorceress who had worked the great transformation.  He even went so far as to read the court society news in the local papers, and grew to envy the men whose names were mentioned in the same column with that of the fair Genevra.  It was two weeks before he saw her the second time; he was more enchanted by her face than before, especially as he came to realise the astonishing fact that she was kind enough to glance in his direction from time to time.

It was during the weekly concert in the Kursaal, late one night.  She came in with a party, among whom he recognised several of the leading personages at court.