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In the afternoon he was at the Louvre. He saw two women coming towards him—Her Serene Highness and her companion. As they saw him they turned abruptly into a side corridor. He came to where they had turned; there lay a handkerchief. He picked it up and noted that it was a fine one, deeply bordered with real lace. In the corner, under a ducal crown, was the initial “E.” He walked rapidly after the two women and, although they quickened their pace, he was soon beside them.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he began.

Her Serene Highness flushed with anger and her gray eyes blazed. “This is insufferable!” she exclaimed. “If you do not leave—”

“Your handkerchief,” he said, extending it, his eyes smiling but his face grave.

She looked at it in horror. “Monsieur is mistaken,” she said, fighting against embarrassment and a feeling that she had made herself ridiculous.

“Mademoiselle is mistaken—doubly mistaken,” he replied, tranquilly. “The handkerchief bears her monogram, and”—here he smiled satirically—“if mademoiselle is vain enough to mistake common courtesy for impudence, I am not vain enough to mistake accident—even twice repeated accident—for design.”