He was alone on the rear seat, and his brown,
handsome face was aglow with smiles. Instead of a hat of silk, he
lifted a gay and far from immaculate conception in straw; instead of
a glittering uniform, he wore a suit of blue serge and a peculiarly
American tie of crimson hue. He looked more like a popular athlete
returning from conquests abroad than a prince of ancient lineage. But
the crowd cheered itself hoarse over this bright-faced youngster who
rode by in a coach of gold and brandished a singularly unregal
chapeau.
His alert eyes were searching the crowd along the street, in the
balconies and windows with an eager intensity. He was looking for the
sweet familiar face of the loveliest girl on earth, and knew that he
looked in vain, for even though she were one among the many her
features would be obscured by an impenetrable veil. If she were
there, he wondered what her thoughts might be on beholding the humble
R. Schmidt in the role of a royal prince receiving the laudations of
the loving multitude!
Passing the Regengetz, his eyes swept the rows of cheering people
banked upon its wide terrace and verandahs.
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