Phyllis and I were sitting in one of the numerous cozy corners. I had
danced badly and out of time. The music and the babel of tongues had
become murmurous and indistinct.

"And so that is the Princess Hildegarde?" she said, after a spell.

"Yes; she is your double. Is she not beautiful?"

"Is that a left-handed compliment to me?" Phyllis was smiling, but she
was colorless.

"No," said I. "I could never give you a left-handed compliment."

"How strange and incomprehensible!" said she, opening her fan.

"What?--that I have never, and could never, give you a--"

"No, no! I was thinking of the likeness. It rather unnerved me. It
seemed as though I was looking into a mirror."

"What do you think of her?" suppressing the eagerness in my voice.

"She is to be envied," softly.

And I grew puzzled.

"Jack, for a man who has associated with the first diplomatists of the
world, who has learned to read the world as another might read a book,
you are surprisingly unadept in the art of dissimulation."

"That is a very long sentence," said I, in order to gain time enough to
fathom what she meant. I could not. So I said: "What do you mean?"

"Your whole face was saying to the Princess, 'I love you!' A glance
told me all. I was glad for your sake that no other woman saw you at
that moment. But I suppose it would not have mattered to you."