A score or more of surprised, disapproving eyes were turned upon him when he yelled "Encore!" "There will be no encore," admonished the fair girl at his side, kindly.
"It is not New York," she added, with a sly smile.
Ten minutes later, Chase and the Englishman were lighting their cigars in an obscure corner of the gardens, off in the shadows where the circle of light spent itself among the trees.
"Extraordinarily beautiful," Chase murmured reflectively, as he seated himself upon the stone railing along the drive.
"Yes, they say he really wrote it himself," drawled Baggs, puffing away.
"I'm not talking about the music," corrected Chase sharply.
"Oh," murmured Baggs, apologetically.

"The night ?" "No! The Princess, Baggs.

Haven't you noticed her ?" with intense sarcasm in his tone.
"Of course, I have, old chap.

By Jove, do you know she _is_ good-looking--positively ripping." The concert over, people began strolling into the more distant corners of the huge garden, down the green-walled walks and across the moonlit terraces.

For a long time, the two men sat moodily smoking in their dark nook, watching the occasional passers-by; listening to the subdued laughter and soft voices of the women, the guttural pleasantries of the men.