Sometimes he caught the echo of low laughter or the snatch of a gay song.

The light of the lamps shot out on the crinkled surface of the lake in tongues of quivering flame, which danced a brave gavot with the phantom stars; and afar twinkled the dipping oars.

The brilliant pavilion, which rested partly over land and partly over water, was thronged.
The band was playing airs from the operas of the day, and Maurice yielded to the spell of the romantic music.

He leaned over the pavilion rail, and out of the blackness below he endeavored to conjure up the face of Nell (or was it Kate ?) who had danced with him at the embassies in Vienna, fenced and ridden with him, till--till--with a gesture of impatience he flung away the end of his cigar.
Memory was altogether too elusive.

It was neither Nell nor Kate he saw smiling up at him, nor anybody else in the world but the Princess Alexia, whose eyes were like wine in a sunset, whose lips were as red as the rose of Tours in France, and whose voice was sweeter than that throbbing up from the 'cello.