The Marquise wanted to show Courtney the bridge and the lake, and, when we passed the place where Moore and I had met the Queens—­as I had styled them—­Mademoiselle d’Essolde found her opportunity and whispered: 

“Will Your Royal Highness ever forgive me?”

“On one condition,” I said.

“It’s granted—­name it.”

“That you be nice to him who sits beside you at supper, to-night.”

She looked at me a moment—­masks are very annoying when one wants to see the face.

“That will be an easy penance,” she said—­and I understood she had been told who that man was to be.

I bent toward her.  “Let him know it, then,” I said earnestly.

“Your Highness likes him?” she asked.

“I do more than like him,” I said.

She threw a quick glance up at me.

“Maybe I do, too,” she laughed.

“Good,” said I; then began to speak of something else.  There is just as proper a point to quit a subject as to start it.

The grass on the bank of the lake was quite dry and Lady Helen suggested that we sit down.

“This reminds me of a garden in Florence,” she said.  “Someone might tell us a story from Boccaccio.”

The Marquise held up her hands in affected horror.

“Helen!  Helen!  You’re positively shocking,” she said.

“Lady Helen evidently believes in living up to our costumes,” I ventured.

“Why not?” she laughed, “since the masks hide our faces?”

“Very good, my dear,” said Lady Vierle, “you tell the first story; we will take our cue from you.”

Lady Helen removed her mask.  “Then, that is your first cue,” she said.

“I breathe easier,” Mademoiselle d’Essolde remarked.

“We all do,” said I—­then, suddenly, replaced mine and arose.

“Indulge me for a moment,” I said, and sauntered over to the path a little distance away; nor answered the chaffing that was flung after me.  I had seen a woman in gypsy dress and a cavalier in white coming slowly down the walk.  I did not doubt it was Mrs. Spencer and Lotzen, and I intended to let them know they were recognized.

As we neared each other, I halted and stared at them with the most obvious deliberation.  The gypsy made some remark to her companion, to which he nodded.  I had little notion they would address me; and, certainly, none that they would stop.  But, there (though whether it was pure bravado or because my attitude was particularly irritating, I know not), Lotzen gave me another surprise.

He paused in front of me and looked me over from head to foot.

“Monsieur seems interested,” he said, making no effort to disguise his tones.

I made no answer.

“And I hope monsieur will pardon me if I tell him his manners are atrocious,” he went on.

Again, no answer.

“Though, of course, no one could ever expect monsieur to understand why,” he continued.