"Polish noblewoman," "Italian marchesa," "French countess," were
tossed about freely in the light froth of the conversation in the
ladies' drawing-room.

Meanwhile, Alan Hawke was smoking a meditative cigar alone, while
pacing the old Cantonal high road before the Faucon. "I think I will
remain on picket here," he mused. "This fiddler fellow, Wieniawski,
must not meet her. She must be led on to leave here at once.
Constitution, nerve, aplomb; she has them all. She should have been
born a man. What a soldier! One of nature's mistakes--man's mental
organization, woman's soft, flooding emotions, and beauty's fiery
passions."

"I must pump Casimir. He will be safely nailed to the platform
by his duties, from eight to ten. I will not leave her a moment,
however, till he has the baton in his hand. I will then watch
him until ten--meet him down there, and, if he meets her after we
separate for the night, he is a smarter Pole than I take him for.
And now I must go and frighten her away from here."

Major Hawke was quick to note all the outer indications of man's
varying fortunes. He had so long buffeted the waves of adversity
himself that he was a past master of the art of measuring the depth
of a hidden purse. He recalled the brilliant Casimir Wieniawski
of eight years past--the curled darling of the hot-hearted ladies
of Calcutta, Madras, Bombay and Singapore. In a glance of cursory
inspection Alan Hawke had noted the doubtful gloss of the dress suit;
it was the polish of long wear, not the velvety glow of newness.
There was a growing bald spot, scarcely hidden by the Hyperion Polish
curls; there were crows'-feet around the bold, insolent eyes, and