Beautiful faces flashed past him. There
were in the air the vague essences of violet, rose and
heliotrope. Sometimes he caught the echo of low laughter or the
snatch of a gay song. The light of the lamps shot out on the
crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of quivering flame,
which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and afar
twinkled the dipping oars. The brilliant pavilion, which rested
partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.
The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and
Maurice yielded to the spell of the romantic music. He leaned
over the pavilion rail, and out of the blackness below he
endeavored to conjure up the face of Nell (or was it Kate?) who
had danced with him at the embassies in Vienna, fenced and
ridden with him, till--till-- with a gesture of impatience he
flung away the end of his cigar.
Memory was altogether too elusive. It was neither Nell nor Kate
he saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the
Princess Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose
lips were as red as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice
was sweeter than that throbbing up from the 'cello.
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