"He's not in Paris now, is he?" I asked.

"Oh no! He's gone back to be present at the King's coronation; a
ceremony which, I should say, he'll not enjoy much. But, Bert, old man,
don't despair! He won't marry the fair Antoinette--at least, not unless
another plan comes to nothing. Still perhaps she--" He paused and added,
with a laugh: "Royal attentions are hard to resist--you know that, don't
you, Rudolf?"

"Confound you!" said I; and rising, I left the hapless Bertram in
George's hands and went home to bed.

The next day George Featherly went with me to the station, where I took
a ticket for Dresden.

"Going to see the pictures?" asked George, with a grin.

George is an inveterate gossip, and had I told him that I was off to
Ruritania, the news would have been in London in three days and in Park
Lane in a week. I was, therefore, about to return an evasive answer,
when he saved my conscience by leaving me suddenly and darting across
the platform. Following him with my eyes, I saw him lift his hat and
accost a graceful, fashionably dressed woman who had just appeared from
the booking-office. She was, perhaps, a year or two over thirty, tall,
dark, and of rather full figure. As George talked, I saw her glance at
me, and my vanity was hurt by the thought that, muffled in a fur coat
and a neck-wrapper (for it was a chilly April day) and wearing a soft
travelling hat pulled down to my ears, I must be looking very far from
my best. A moment later, George rejoined me.