That evening Dorothy Marche stood on the terrace in the moonlight waving her plumed fan and listening to the orchestra from the hamlet of Saint-Lys. The orchestra--two violins, a reed-pipe, a biniou, and a harp--were playing away with might and main. Through the bay-window she could see the crystal chandeliers glittering with prismatic light, the slender gilded chairs, the cabinets and canapés, golden, backed with tapestry; and everywhere massed banks of ferns and lilies. They were dancing in there; she saw Lady Hesketh floating in the determined grip of Cecil Page, she saw Sir Thorald proudly prancing to the air of the farandole; Betty Castlemaine, Jack, Alixe, Barbara Lisle passed the window only to re-pass and pass again in a whirl of gauze and filmy colour; and the swish! swish! swish! of silken petticoats, and the rub of little feet on the polished floor grew into a rhythmic, monotonous cadence, beating, beating the measure of the farandole.
Dorothy waved her fan and looked at Rickerl, standing in the moonlight beside her.
"Why won't you dance, Ricky?" she asked; "it is your last evening, if you are determined to leave to-morrow." He turned to her with an abrupt gesture; she thought he was going to speak, but he did not, and after a moment she said: "Do you know what that despatch from the New York Herald to my brother means?"
"Yes," he said. His voice was dull, almost indifferent.
"Will you tell me?"
"Yes, to-morrow."
"Is--is it anything dangerous that they want him to do?"
"Yes."
"Ricky--tell me, then! You frighten me."
"To-morrow--perhaps to-night."
"Perhaps to-night?"
"If I receive another telegram. I expect to."
"Then, if you receive another despatch, we shall all know?"
Rickerl von Elster bent his head and laid a gloved hand lightly on her own.
"I am very unhappy," he said, simply. "May we not speak of other things?"
"Yes, Ricky," she said, faintly. He looked almost handsome there in the moonlight, but under his evening dress the square build of the Prussian trooper, the rigid back, and sturdy limbs were perhaps too apparent for ideal civilian elegance. Dorothy looked into his serious young face. He touched his blond mustache, felt unconsciously for the sabre that was not dangling from his left hip, remembered, coloured, and stood up even straighter.
"We are thinking of the same thing," said Dorothy; "I was trying to recall that last time we met--do you remember? In Paris?"
He nodded; eyes fixed on hers.
"At the Diplomatic Ball?"
"Yes."
"And you were in uniform, and your sabre was very beautiful, but--do you remember how it clashed and banged on the marble stairway, and how the other attachés teased you until you tucked it under your left arm? Dear me! I was fascinated by your patent-leather sabre-tache, and your little spurs, that rang like tiny chimes when you walked. What sentimental creatures young girls are! Ne c'est pas, Ricky?"