In the war of the confetti, man makes war on woman and woman on man,
while over the field reigns a universal and democratic acquaintanceship.
Cara was on vacation, and a child--bent on forgetting that to-morrow
must come. It was characteristic of her that she should enter into the
spirit of the occasion with all the abandon it suggested.
Benton stood by as she gradually gave ground before the attacks of a
stout, gray-templed Briton, a General of the Army of Occupation. She
fought gallantly, but he stood doggedly before her handfuls of confetti,
shaking the paper chips out of his eyes and mustache like some
invincible old St. Bernard, and her slender Mandarin-coated figure
retreated slowly before his red and medal-decked jacket.
"Watch out!" cried Benton, who followed her retreat, forbidden by the
rules of warfare from giving aid, other than counsel, "The British Army
is putting you in a bad strategic position."
She had retreated across the flower-beds and stood with her back to the
rim of the fountain. Her box of confetti was empty and Benton also was
without ordnance supplies.
Young Harcourt suddenly stepped forward from the crowd.
"Here!" he cried with a smile of frank worship, as he tendered a fresh
box of confetti. "Take this and remember Bunker Hill!"
The British officer bowed.
"I surrender," he said, "because you violate the rules of war. Your
confetti is not deadly and your tactics are mediocre, but your eyes use
lyddite."
Inside Cara went to her room to wrestle with the tiny chips of
multi-colored paper that covered her and filled her hair. In the hall,
Harcourt came again to Benton.
"By Jove, she is a wonder," he said. Then he slipped his arm through
Benton's and led him aside. The American followed supinely.
"Benton, do you remember the talk we had about Romance?"
Benton looked quickly up to forestall any possible personality to which
he might object, but Harcourt continued.
"Do you know that chap, Martin--he doesn't call himself Browne now--has
turned up again? He's been here. Not ragged this time, but well groomed
and in high feather. To-day he left to go back to Galavia."
"Back to Galavia?" Benton repeated the words in astonishment. "What do
you mean?"
Harcourt laughed. "The scales have turned and his Grand Duke is to be
King after all."
Benton seized the boy by the elbow and steered him into one of the empty
writing-rooms.
"Now, for God's sake, what do you mean?" he demanded.
"That's all," replied the young tourist. "They've switched Kings. Oh, it
was so quietly done that the people of the city of Puntal don't know yet
it's happened. The King died suddenly and Louis will ascend his throne."
"The King died suddenly!" Benton echoed the words blankly. "I don't
understand."