Between times he exchanged a jest or two with the chancellor or talked battles with old Ducwitz; twice he caught the grand duke's eye, but there was only a friendly nod from that august personage, no invitation to talk.

Thrice, while on the floor, her highness passed him; but there was never a smile, never a glance.

He became careless and reckless.

He would seek her and talk to her and smile at her even if the duke threw a regiment in between.

The Irish blood in him burned to-night, capable of any folly.