Chase arose and cheered with the assemblage when the distinguished
director made his appearance. Then he proceeded to forget the man and
his genius--in fact everything save the rapt listener above him. She was
leaning forward on the rail of the box, her chin in her hand, her eyes
looking steadily ahead, enthralled by the music. Suddenly she turned and
looked squarely into his eyes, as if impelled by the magnetism they
unconsciously employed. A little flush mounted to her brow as she
quickly resumed her former attitude. Chase cursed himself for a
brainless lout.

The number came to an end and the crowd arose to cheer the bowing,
smiling director. Chase cheered and shouted "bravo," too, because _she_
was applauding as eagerly as the others. She called the flushed, bowing
director to her box, and publicly thanked him for the pleasure he had
given. Chase saw him kiss her hand as he murmured his gratitude. For the
first time in his life he coveted the occupation of an orchestra leader.

The director was a frail, rather good-looking young man, with piercing
black eyes that seemed too bold in their scrutiny of the young lady's
face. Chase began to hate him; he was unreasonably thankful when he
passed on to the box in which the Duke sat.

The third and last time he saw the Princess Genevra before his sudden,
spectacular departure from the Grand Duchy, was at the Duke's reception
to the nobility of Rapp-Thorberg and to the representatives of such
nations of the world as felt the necessity of having a man there in an
official capacity.