Maurice could not regain his interest in the scene. He strolled in andout of the moving groups, but no bright eyes or winning smiles alluredhim. Impelled by curiosity, he began to draw near the shadowed nook.Curiosity in a journalist is innate, and time nor change can effaceit. Curiosity in those things which do not concern us is wrong. Ethicsdisavows the practice, though philosophy sustains it. Perhaps in thisinstance Maurice was philosophical, not ethical. Perhaps he wantedto hear the woman's voice again, which was excusable. Perhaps it wasneither the one nor the other, but fate, which directed his footsteps.Certain it is that the subsequent adventures would never have happenedhad he gone about his business, as he should have done.
"Who is this who stares at us?" asked Beauvais, with a piercing glanceand a startled movement of his shoulders.
"A disciple of Pallas and a pupil of Mars," was the answer. "I have beenrecruiting, Colonel. There is sharpness sometimes in new blades. Do notdraw him with your eyes."
The Colonel continued his scrutiny, however, and there was an uglydroop at the corners of his mouth, though it was partly hidden under hismustache.
Maurice, aware that he was not wanted, passed along, having in mind toregain his former seat by the railing.
"Colonel," he mused, "your face grows more familiar every moment. It wasnot associated with agreeable things. But, what were they? Hang it! youshall have a place in my thoughts till I have successfully labeled you.Humph! Some one seems to have appropriated my seat."
He viewed with indecision the broad back of the interloper, who at thatmoment turned his head. At the sight of that bronzed profile Mauricegave an exclamation of surprise and delight. He stepped forward anddropped his hand on the stranger's shoulder.
"John Fitzgerald, or henceforth garlic shall be my salad!" he cried inloud, exultant tones.