We tramped down the long flights of stairs side by side, followed by the superfluous Mr. Saks, who did all of the talking. He was, I think, discoursing on the extraordinary ability of ancient builders, but I am not absolutely certain. I am confident Tarnowsy did not hear a word the fellow said.

In my study we found Poopendyke and the two strangers.

"Have you made out the papers?" demanded the Count harshly. An ugly gleam had come to his eyes, but he did not direct it toward me. Indeed, he seemed to avoid looking at me at all.

"Yes, Count Tarnowsy," said the lawyer. "They are ready for the signatures."

"Perhaps Mr. Smart may have reconsidered his offer to sell," said Tarnowsy. "Let him see the contracts."

"I have not reconsidered," I said quietly.

"You may sign here, Mr. Smart," said the notary, as he gave me the document, a simple contract, I found.

"Jasper Titus will offer more than I can afford to pay," said the Count. "Please do not feel that I am taking an unfair advantage of you. I am absolutely certain that he wants to buy this place for—his granddaughter, a descendant of barons."

The significance of this remark was obvious, and it was the nearest he ever came to uttering the conviction that had been formed in that illuminating five minutes upstairs. If he suspected,—and I think he did,—he preferred not to ask the questions that must have been searing his curious brain. It was a truly wonderful demonstration of self-restraint. I would have given much to have been able to read his innermost thoughts, to watch the perplexed movements of his mind.

"Schloss Rothhoefen is yours, Count Tarnowsy," said I. "It is for you to say whether his whim shall be gratified."

His lips twitched. I saw his hand touch the bulging coat-pocket with a swift, passing movement.

"Will you be good enough to sign, Mr. Smart?" he said coldly. He glanced at his watch. "My time is valuable. When can you give possession?"

"The day the deed is transferred."

"That will be in less than three days. I have satisfied myself that the title is clear. There need be no delay."

We signed the contract after I had requested Poopendyke to read it aloud to me. It called for the payment of fifty thousand kronen, or a little over two thousand pounds sterling, at the time of signing. His lawyer handed me a package of crisp banknotes and asked me to count them. I did so deliberately, the purchaser looking on with a sardonic smile.

"Correct," said I, laying the package on the table. He bowed very deeply.

"Are you satisfied, Mr. Smart, that there are no counterfeits among them?" he inquired with polite irony. Then to his lawyer: "Take the gentleman's receipt for the amount in the presence of witnesses. This is a business transaction, not a game of chance." It was the insult perfect.

As he prepared to take his departure, he assumed an insinuating air of apology, and remarked to me:

"I owe you an apology, Mr. Smart. There was a time when I did you an injustice. I suspected you of keeping your mistress here. Pray forgive my error."

Five days later I was snugly ensconced in the ducal suite at the Bristol, overlooking the Kartnerring-strasse, bereft of my baronial possessions but not at all sorry. My romance had been short-lived. It is one thing to write novels about mediaeval castles and quite another thing to try to write a novel in one of them. I trust I may never again be guilty of such arrant stupidity as to think that an American-born citizen can become a feudal baron by virtue of his dollars and cents, any more than an American-born girl can hope to be a real, dyed-in-the-wool countess or duchess because some one needs the money more than she does. It would be quite as impossible, contrariwise, to transform a noble duke into a plain American citizen, so there you are, even up.

My plans were made. After a fortnight in Vienna, I expected to go west to London for the autumn, and then back to New York. Strange to relate, I was homesick. Never before had my thoughts turned so restlessly, so wistfully to the haunts of my boyhood days. I began to long for the lights of Broadway (which I had scornfully despised in other days), and the gay peacockery of Fifth Avenue at four in the afternoon. It seemed to me that nowhere in all the world was life so joyous and blithe and worth while as in "old New York"; nowhere were the theatres so attractive, nowhere such restaurants. Even, in retrospect, the subway looked alluring, and as for the Fifth Avenue stages they were too beautiful for words. Ah, what a builder of unreal things a spell of homesickness may become if one gives it half a chance!

As for Schloss Rothhoefen, I had it on excellent authority (no less a person than Conrad Schmick himself) that barely had I shaken the dust of the place from myself before the new master put into execution a most extraordinary and incomprehensible plan of reconstruction. In the first place, he gave all the servants two weeks' notice, and then began to raze the castle from the bottom upward instead of the other way round, as a sensible person might have been expected to do. He was knocking out the walls in the cellars and digging up the stone floors with splendid disregard for that ominous thing known as a cataclysm. The grave question in the minds of the servants was whether the usual and somewhat mandatory two weeks' notice wouldn't prove a trifle too long after all. In fact, Hawkes, with an inspiration worthy of an office boy, managed to produce a sick grand-mother and got away from the place at the end of one week, although having been paid in full for two.

The day on which I left for Paris still saw Tarnowsy at work with his masons, heroically battering down the walls of the grim old stronghold, and I chuckled to myself. It was quite evident that he hadn't found the hiding place up to that time.

After several days in Paris, I took myself off to London. I was expecting letters at Claridge's, where I always take rooms, not because I think it is the best hotel in London but because I am, to some extent, a creature of habit. My mother took me to Claridge's when I was a boy and I saw a wonderful personage at the door whom I was pleased to call the King. Ever since then I have been going to Claridge's and while my first king is dead there is one in his place who bids fair to live long, albeit no one shouts encouragement to him. He wears the most gorgeous buttons I've ever seen, and I doubt if King Solomon himself could have been more regal. Certainly not Nebuchadnezzar. He works from seven in the morning until seven at night, and he has an imperial scorn for anything smaller than half a sovereign.

There were many letters waiting there for me, but not one from the Countess Aline. I had encouraged the hope that she might write to me; it was the least she could do in return for all that I had done for her, notwithstanding my wretched behaviour on the last day of our association. While I had undoubtedly offended in the most flagrant manner, still my act was not unpardonable. There was tribute, not outrage in my behaviour.

Poopendyke fidgeted a good deal with the scanty results of my literary labours, rattling the typed pages in a most insinuating way. He oiled his machine with accusative frequency, but I failed to respond. I was in no mood for writing. He said to me one day:

"I don't see why you keep a secretary, Mr. Smart. I don't begin to earn my salt."

"Salt, Mr. Poopendyke," said I, "is the cheapest thing I know of. Now if you had said pepper I might pause to reflect. But I am absolutely, inexorably opposed to rating anything on a salt basis. If you—"

"You know what I mean," he said stiffly. "I am of no use to you."

"Ah," said I triumphantly, "but you forget! Who is it that draws the salary checks for yourself and Britton, and who keeps the accounts straight? Who, I repeat? Why, you, Mr. Poopendyke. You draw the checks. Isn't that something?"

"If—if I didn't know you so well, I wouldn't hesitate to call you a blooming fool, Mr. Smart," said he, but he grinned as he said it.

"But he who hesitates is lost," said I. "This is your chance, don't let it slip." He looked at me so steadily for a moment that I was in some fear he would not let it slip.

Before I had been in London a week it became perfectly clear to me that I could not stretch my stay out to anything like a period of two months. Indeed, I began to think about booking my passage home inside of two weeks. I was restless, dissatisfied, homesick. On the ninth day I sent Poopendyke to the booking office of the steamship company with instructions to secure passage for the next sailing of the Mauretania, and then lived in a state of positive dread for fear the confounded American tourists might have gobbled up all of the cabins. They are always going home it seems to me, and they are always trying to get on a single unfortunate ship. In all my experience abroad, I've never known a time when Americans were not tumbling over each other trying to get back to New York in time to catch a certain train for home, wherever that may be. But Poopendyke managed it somehow. He must have resorted to bribery.

I awoke one morning to find a long and—I was about to say interesting—letter from the Countess! It was a very commonplace communication I found on the third or fourth reading. The sum and substance of its contents was the information that she was going to Virginia Hot Springs with the family for a month or two and that Lord Amberdale was to join them there.

It appeared that her father, being greatly overworked, was in need of a rest, and as the golf links at Hot Springs are especially designed to make it easy for rich men, his doctor had ordered him to that delightful resort. She hoped the rest would put him on his feet again. There was a page or so of drivel about Amberdale and what he expected to do at the New York Horse Show, a few lines concerning Rosemary; and a brief, almost curt intimation that a glimpse or two of me would not be altogether displeasing to her if I happened to be coming that way.

It may be regarded as a strange coincidence that I instructed Britton that very evening to see that my golf clubs were cleaned up and put into good shape for a little practice on a course near London, where I had been put up by an English author, and who was forever ding-donging at me to come out and let him "put it all over me." I went out and bought a new brassie to replace the one destroyed by the experimenting Rocksworth youth, and before I got through with it had a new putter, a niblick and a spoon, neither of which I needed for the excellent reason that I already possessed a half dozen of each.

Keyed up to a high pitch of enthusiasm, I played golf for ten days, and found my friend to be a fine sportsman. Like all Englishmen, he took a beating gracefully, but gave me to understand that he had been having a good deal of trouble with rheumatism or neuritis in his right elbow. On the last day we played he succeeded in bringing me in two down and I've never seen neuritis dispersed so quickly as it was in his case. I remember distinctly that he complained bitterly of the pain in his elbow when we started out, and that he was as fit as a fiddle at the eighteenth hole. He even went so far as to implore me to stay over till the next sailing of the Mauretania.

But I took to the high seas. Mr. Poopendyke cabled to the Homestead at Hot Springs for suitable accommodations. I cannot remember when I had been so forehanded as all that, and I wonder what my secretary thought of me. My habit is to procrastinate.

I almost forgot to mention a trifling bit of news that came to me the day before sailing. Elsie Hazzard wrote in great perturbation and at almost unfeeling length to tell me that Count Tarnowsy had unearthed the supposedly mythical Rothhoefen treasure chests and was reputed to have found gold and precious jewels worth at least a million dollars. The accumulated products of a century's thievery! The hoard of all the robber barons! Tarnowsy's!

Strange to say I did not writhe nor snarl with disappointment and rage. I took the news with a sang froid that almost killed poor Poopendyke. He never quite got over it.

Nor was I especially disturbed or irritated by the telegram of condolence I received on board ship from Tarnowsy himself. He could not resist the temptation to gloat. I shall not repeat the message for the simple reason that I do not wish to dignify it by putting it into permanent form. We were two days out when I succeeded in setting my mind at rest in respect to Aline, Countess Tarnowsy. I had not thought of it before, but I remembered all of a sudden that I held decided scruples against marrying a divorced woman. Of course, that simplified matters. When one has preconceived notions about such matters they afford excellent material to fall back upon, even though he may have disregarded them after a fashion while unselfishly thinking of some one else. As I say, the recollection of this well-defined though somewhat remorseless principle of mine had the effect of putting my mind at rest in regard to the Countess. Feeling as strongly as I did about marriage with divorcees, she became an absolutely undesirable person so far as matrimony was concerned. I experienced a rather doubtful feeling of relief. It was not so hard to say to myself that Lord Amberdale was welcome to her, but it was very, very difficult to refrain from adding the unamiable words: "damn him."

This rigid, puritanical principle of mine, however, did not declare against the unrighteousness of falling in love with a divorcee.



CHAPTER XX

I CHANGE GARDEN SPOTS

IF I have, by any chance, announced earlier in this narrative that the valley of the Donau is the garden spot of the world, I must now ask you to excuse the ebullience of spirit that prompted the declaration. The Warm Springs Valley of Virginia is infinitely more attractive to me, and I make haste to rectify any erroneous impression I may have given, while under the spell of something my natural modesty forbids me to describe.

If you happen not to know the Warm Springs Valley, permit me to say that you are missing a great deal. It is a garden spot and—but why discourse upon a subject that is so aptly handled by the gentlemen who supply railway folders with descriptive material and who will tell you in so many words that God's noblest work was done in the green hills and vales of fair Virginia? Any railway folder will acquaint you with all this and save me a great deal of time and trouble, besides giving you a sensible and adequate idea of how to get there and where to stop when you reach your journey's end, together with the price of Pullman tickets and the nature of the ailments you are supposed to have if you take the waters. It is only necessary for me to say that it is a garden spot and that you don't have to change cars if you take the right train out of New York City, a condition which does not obtain if you happen to approach from the opposite direction.

I arrived there early one bright November morning, three days after landing in New York. You will be rendered unhappy, I fear, by the announcement that I left Mr. Poopendyke behind. He preferred to visit an aunt at New Rochelle and I felt that he deserved a vacation. Britton, of course, accompanied me. He is indispensable, and, so far as I know, hasn't the faintest notion of what a vacation means unless he considers employment with me in some such light. At any rate he has never mentioned a relation in need of a visit from him.

Before leaving New York I had a rather unpleasant encounter with my publishers. It was in the nature of a luncheon at which I was led to believe that they still expected me to supply them with the manuscript of a novel at a very early date. They seemed considerably put out when I blandly informed them that I had got no farther along than the second chapter.

"We have been counting on this book of yours for January publication," said they.

I tried to explain that the muse had abandoned me in a most heartless fashion.

"But the public demands a story from you," said they. "What have you been doing all summer?"

"Romancing," said I.

I don't know just how it came about, but the suggestion was made that I put into narrative form the lively history of my sojourn on the banks of the Danube, trusting implicitly to the imagination yet leaving nothing to it.

"But it's all such blithering rot," said I.

"So much the better," said they triumphantly—even eagerly.

"I do not suppose that you, as publishers, can appreciate the fact that an author may have a soul above skittles," said I indignantly. "I cannot, I will not write a line about myself, gentlemen. Not that I consider the subject sacred but—"

"Wait!" cried the junior member, his face aglow. "We appreciate the delicacy of—er—your feelings, Mr. Smart, but I have an idea,—a splendid idea. It solves the whole question. Your secretary is a most competent, capable young man and a genius after a fashion. I propose that he write the story. We'll pay him a lump sum for the work, put your name on the cover, and there you are. All you will have to do is to edit his material. How's that?"

And so it came to pass that I took myself off that evening for Hot Springs, secure in the thought that Poopendyke would attend to my literary estate far more capably than I could do it myself, and that my labours later on would be pleasantly devoted to the lazy task of editing, revising and deleting a tale already told....

If you are lucky enough to obtain rooms in the Homestead, looking out over the golf course, with the wonderful November colourings in the hills and gaps beyond; over the casino, the tennis courts and the lower levels of the fashionable playground, you may well say to yourself that all the world is bright and sweet and full of hope. From my windows I could see far down the historic valley in the direction of Warm Springs, a hazy blue panorama wrapped in the air of an Indian summer and redolent with the incense of autumn.

Britton reminded me that it was a grand morning for golf, and I was at once reminded that Britton is an excellent chap whose opinions are always worth considering. So I started for the links, stopping first at the office on my way out, ostensibly to complain about the absence of window-screens but in reality to glance over the register in quest of certain signatures.

A brisk, oldish little man came up beside me and rather testily inquired why the deuce there were no matches in his room; also why the hot water was cold so much longer than usual that morning. He was not much of a man to look at, but I could not fail to note the obsequious manner in which the two clerks behind the desk looked at him. You couldn't possibly have discovered anything in their manner to remind you of hotel clerks you may have come to know in your travels. A half dozen boxes of matches were passed out to him in the twinkling of an eye, and I shudder to think what might have happened if there had been a hot water faucet handy, they were so eager to please.

"Mr. Brewster gone out yet?" demanded this important guest, pocketing all of the matches. (I could see at once that he was a very rich man.) "Did he leave any message for me? He didn't? He was to let me know whether he could play golf with—eh? Playing with Logan, eh? Well, of all the—He knows I will not play with Logan. See if Mr. Scott is in his room. Tell him I'd like to take him on for eighteen holes this morning."

He crossed to the news-counter and glanced over the papers while a dusky bell-boy shot off in quest of Mr. Scott.

"They all hate to play with the old geezer," said one of the clerks,—a young one, you may be sure,—lowering his voice and his eyebrows at the same time. "He's the rottenest player in the world."

"Who is he?" I inquired, mildly interested.

"Jasper Titus," was the reply. "The real old Jasper himself."

Before I could recover from my surprise, the object of my curiosity approached the desk, his watch in his hand.

"Well, what does he say?" he demanded.

"The—the boy isn't back yet, Mr. Titus," said one of the clerks, involuntarily pounding the call-bell in his nervousness.

"Lazy, shiftless niggers, the whole tribe of them," was Mr. Titus's caustic comment.

At that instant the boy, quite out of breath, came thumping down the stairs.

"Mr. Scott's got rheumatiz, Mr. Titus. He begs to be excused—"

"Buncombe!" snapped Mr. Titus. "He's afraid to play me. Well, this means no game for me. A beautiful day like this and—"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Titus," said I, stepping forward. "If you don't mind taking on a stranger, I will be happy to go around with you. My name is Smart. I think you must have heard of me through the Countess and your—"

"Great Scott! Smart? Are—are you the author, James Byron Smart? The—the man who—" He checked himself suddenly, but seized me by the hand and, as he wrung it vigorously, dragged me out of hearing of the men behind the desk.

"I am John Bellamy Smart," said I, a little miffed.

His shrewd, hard old face underwent a marvellous change. The crustiness left it as if by magic. His countenance radiated joy.

"I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Smart, that can never be lifted. My daughter has told me everything. You must have put up with a fearful lot of nonsense during the weeks she was with you. I know her well. She's spoiled and she's got a temper, although, upon my soul, she seems different nowadays. There is a change in her, by George."

"She's had her lesson," said I. "Besides I didn't find she had a bad temper."

"And say, I want to tell you something else before I forget it: I fully appreciate your views on international marriage. Allie told me everything you had to say about it. You must have rubbed it in! But I think it did her good. She'll never marry another foreigner if I can help it, if she never marries. Well, well, I am glad to see you, and to shake your hand. I—I wish I could really tell you how I feel toward you, my boy, but I—I don't seem to have the power to express myself. If I—"

I tried to convince him that the pleasure had been all mine, and then inquired for Mrs. Titus and the Countess.

"They're both here, but the good Lord only knows where. Mrs. Titus goes driving every morning. Roads are fine if you can stick to them. Aline said something last night about riding over to Fassifern this forenoon with Amberdale and young Skelly. Let's see, it's half-past ten. Yes, they've gone by this time. Why didn't you write or telegraph Aline? She'll be as mad as a wet hen when she finds you've come without letting her know." "I thought I should like to take her by surprise," I mumbled uncomfortably.

"And my son Jasper—why, he will explode when he hears you're here. He's gone over to Covington to see a girl off on the train for Louisville. You've never seen such a boy. He is always going to Covington with some girl to see that she gets the right train home, But why are we wasting time here when we might be doing a few holes before lunch? I'll take you on. Of course, you understand I'm a wretched player, but I've got one virtue: I never talk about my game and I never tell funny stories while my opponent is addressing the ball. I'm an old duffer at the game, but I've got more sense than most duffers."

We sauntered down to the club house where he insisted on buying me a dozen golf balls and engaging a caddy for me by the week. Up to the moment we stepped up to the first tee he talked incessantly of Aline and Rosemary, but the instant the game was on he settled into the grim reserve that characterises the man who takes any enterprise seriously, be it work or play.

I shall not discuss our game, further than to say that he played in atrociously bad form but with a purpose that let me, to some degree, into the secret of his success in life. If I do say it myself, I am a fairly good player. My driving is consistently long. It may not be difficult for even you who do not go in for golf to appreciate the superior patience of a man whose tee shots are rarely short of two hundred and twenty yards when he is obliged to amble along doing nothing while his opponent is striving to cover the same distance in three or four shots, not counting the misses. But I was patient, agreeably patient, not to say tolerant. I don't believe I was ever in a better humour than on this gay November morn. I even apologised for Mr. Titus's execrable foozles; I amiably suggested that he was a little off his game and that he'd soon strike his gait and give me a sound beating after the turn. His smile was polite but ironic, and it was not long before I realised that he knew his own game too well to be affected by cajolery. He just pegged away, always playing the odd or worse, uncomplaining, unresentful, as even-tempered as the May wind, and never by any chance winning a hole from me. He was the rarest "duffer" it has ever been my good fortune to meet. As a rule, the poorer the player the loader his execrations. Jasper Titus was one of the worst players I've ever seen, but he was the personification of gentility, even under the most provoking circumstances. For instance, at the famous "Crater," it was my good fortune to pitch a ball fairly on the green from the tee. His mashie shot landed his ball about twenty feet up the steep hill which guards the green. It rolled halfway back. Without a word of disgust, or so much as a scowl, he climbed up and blazed away at it again, not once but fourteen times by actual count. On the seventeenth stroke he triumphantly laid his ball on the green. Most men would have lifted and conceded the hole to me. He played it out.

"A man never gets anywhere, Mr. Smart," said he, unruffled by his miserable exhibition, "unless he keeps plugging away at a thing. That's my principle in life. Keep at it. There is satisfaction in putting the damned ball in the hole, even if it does require twenty strokes. You did it in three, but you'll soon forget the feat. I'm not likely to forget the troubles I had going down in twenty, and there lies the secret of success. If success comes easy, we pass it off with a laugh, if it comes hard we grit our teeth and remember the ways and means. You may not believe it, but I took thirty-three strokes for that hole one day last week. Day before yesterday I did it in four. Perhaps it wouldn't occur to you to think that it's a darned sight easier to do it in four than it is in thirty-three. Get the idea?"

"I think I do, Mr. Titus," said I. "The things that 'come easy' are never appreciated."

"Right, my boy. It's what we have to work for like nailers that we lie awake thinking about."

We came out upon the eminence overlooking the next hole, which lay far below us. As I stooped to tee-up my ball, a gleeful shout came up the hillside.

"Hello, John Bellamy!"

Glancing down, I saw Jasper, Jr., at the edge of the wagon road. He was waving his cap and, even at that distance, I could see the radiance in his good-looking young face. A young and attractively dressed woman stood beside him. I waved my hand and shouted a greeting.

"I thought you said he'd gone to Covington to see her off," I said, turning to the young man's father with a grin.

"Not the same girl," said he succinctly, squinting his eyes. "That's the little Parsons girl from Richmond. He was to meet her at Covington. Jasper is a scientific butterfly. He makes both ends meet,—nearly always. Now no one but a genius could have fixed it up to see one girl off and meet another on the same train."

Later on, Jasper, Jr., and I strolled over to the casino verandah, the chatty Miss Parsons between us, but leaning a shade nearer to young Titus than to me, although she appeared to be somewhat overwhelmed at meeting a real live author. Mr. Titus, as was his habit, hurried on ahead of us. I afterwards discovered he had a dread of pneumonia.

"Aline never said a word about your coming, John," said Jasper, Jr. He called me John with considerable gusto. "She's learning how to hold her tongue."

"It happens that she didn't know I was coming," said I drily. He whistled.

"She's off somewhere with Amberdale. Ever meet him? He's one of the finest chaps I know. You'll like him, Miss Parsons. He's not at all like a Britisher."

"But I like the British," said she.

"Then I'll tell him to spread it on a bit," said Jappy obligingly. "Great horseman, he is. Got some ripping nags in the New York show next week, and he rides like a dream. Watch him pull down a few ribbons and rosettes. Sure thing."

"Your father told me that the Countess was off riding with him and another chap,—off to Fassifern, I believe."

"For luncheon. They do it three or four times a week. Not for me. I like waiters with shirt fronts and nickle tags."

Alone with me in the casino half an hour later, he announced that it really looked serious, this affair between Aline and his lordship.

I tried to appear indifferent,—a rather pale effort, I fear.

"I think I am in on the secret, Jappy," said I soberly.

He stared. "Has she ever said anything to you, old chap, that would lead you to believe she's keen about him?"

I temporised. "She's keen about somebody, my son; that's as far as I will go."

"Then it must be Amberdale. I'm on to her all right, all right. I know women. She's in love, hang it all. If you know a thing about 'em, you can spot the symptoms without the x-rays. I've been hoping against hope, old man. I don't want her to marry again. She's had all the hell she's entitled to. What's the matter with women, anyhow? They no sooner get out of one muddle than they begin looking around for another. Can't be satisfied with good luck."

"But every one speaks very highly of Lord Amberdale. I'm sure she can't be making a mistake in marrying him."

"I wish she'd pick out a good, steady, simplified American, just as an experiment. We're not so darned bad, you know. Women can do worse than to marry Americans."

"It is a matter of opinion, I fancy. At any rate we can't go about picking out husbands for people who have minds of their own."

"Well, some one in our family picked out a lemon for Aline the first time, let me tell you that," said he, scowling.

"And she's doing the picking for herself this time, I gather."

"I suppose so," said he gloomily.

I have visited the popular and almost historic Fassifern farm a great many times in my short career, but for the life of me I cannot understand what attraction it possesses that could induce people to go there for luncheon and then spend a whole afternoon lolling about the place. But that seems to have been precisely what the Countess and his lordship did on the day of my arrival at the Homestead. The "other chap," Skerry, came riding home alone at three o'clock. She did not return until nearly six. By that time I was in a state of suppressed fury that almost drove me to the railway station with a single and you might say childish object in view.

I had a pleasant visit with Mrs. Titus, who seemed overjoyed to see me. In fact, I had luncheon with her. Mr. Titus, it appeared, never ate luncheon. He had a dread of typhoid, I believe, and as he already possessed gout and insomnia and an intermittent tendency to pain in his abdomen, and couldn't drink anything alcoholic or eat anything starchy, I found myself wondering what he really did for a living.

Mrs. Titus talked a great deal about Lord Amberdale. She was most tiresome after the first half hour, but I must say that the luncheon was admirable. I happened to be hungry. Having quite made up my mind that Aline was going to marry Amberdale, I proceeded to upset the theory that a man in love is a creature without gastronomical aspirations by vulgarly stuffing myself with half a lamb chop, a slice of buttered bread and nine pickles.

"Aline will be glad to see you again, Mr. Smart," said she amiably. "She was speaking of you only a day or two ago."

"Was she?" I inquired, with sudden interest which I contrived to conceal.

"Yes. She was wondering why you have never thought of marrying."

I closed my eyes for a second, and the piece of bread finally found the right channel.

"And what did you say to that?" I asked quietly.

She was disconcerted. "I? Oh, I think I said you didn't approve of marrying except for love, Mr. Smart."

"Um!" said I. "Love on both sides is the better way to put it."

"Am I to infer that you may have experienced a one-sided leaning toward matrimony?"

"So far as I know, I have been singularly unsupported, Mrs. Titus."

"You really ought to marry."

"Perhaps I may. Who knows?"

"Aline said you would make an excellent husband."

"By that she means a stupid one, I suppose. Excellent husbands are invariably stupid. They always want to stay at home."

She appeared thoughtful. "And expect their wives to stay at home too."

"On the contrary, an excellent husband lets his wife go where she likes—without him."

"I am afraid you do not understand matrimony, Mr. Smart," she said, and changed the subject.

I am afraid that my mind wandered a little at this juncture, for I missed fire on one or two direct questions. Mrs. Titus was annoyed; it would not be just to her to say that she was offended. If she could but have known that my thoughts were of the day and minute when I so brutally caressed the Countess Tarnowsy, I fancy she would have changed her good opinion of me. To tell the truth, I was wondering just how the Countess would behave toward me, with the memory of that unforgettable incident standing between us. I had been trying to convince myself for a very long time that my fault was not as great in her eyes as it was in mine.

Along about five o'clock, I went to my room. I daresay I was sulking. A polite bell-boy tapped on my door at half-past six. He presented a small envelope to me, thanked me three or four times, and, as an afterthought, announced that there was to be an answer.

Whereupon I read the Countess's note with a magnificently unreadable face. I cleared my throat, and (I think) squared my shoulders somewhat as a soldier does when he is being commended for valour, and said:

"Present my compliments to the Countess, and say that Mr. Smart will be down in five minutes."

The boy stared. "The—the what, sir?"

"The what?" I demanded.

"I mean the who, sir."

"The Countess. The lady who sent you up with this note."

"Wasn't no Countess sent me up hyer, boss. It was Miss Tarsney."

Somehow staggered, I managed to wave my hand comprehensively.

"Never mind. Just say that I'll be down in two minutes."

He grinned. "I reckon I'd better hustle, or you'll beat me down, boss."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XXI

SHE PROPOSES

She was still in her riding habit when I found her alone in the parlour of the Titus suite.

I give you my word my heart almost stopped beating. I've never seen any one so lovely as she was at that moment. Never, I repeat. Her hair, blown by the kind November winds, strayed—but no! I cannot begin to define the loveliness of her. There was a warm, rich glow in her cheeks and a light in her eyes that actually bewildered me, and more than that I am not competent to utter.

"You have come at last," she said, and her voice sounded very far off; although I was lifting her ungloved hand to my lips. She clenched my fingers tightly, I remember that; and also that my hand shook violently and that my face felt pale.

I think I said that I had come at last. She took my other hand in hers and drawing dangerously close to me said:

"I do not expect to be married for at least a year, John."

"I—I congratulate you," I stammered foolishly.

"I have a feeling that it isn't decent for one to marry inside of two years after one has been divorced."

"How is Rosemary?" I murmured.

"You are in love with me, aren't you, John, dear?"

"Goo—good heaven!" I gasped.

"I know you are. That's why I am so sure of myself. Is it asking too much of you to marry me in a year from—"

I haven't the faintest notion how long afterward it was that I asked her what was to become of that poor, unlucky devil, Lord Amberdale.

"He isn't a devil. He's a dear, and he is going to marry a bred-in-the-bone countess next January. You will like him, because he is every bit as much in love with his real countess are you are with a sham one. He is a bird of your feather. And now don't you want to come with me to see Rosemary?"

"Rosemary," I murmured, as in a dream—a luxurious lotus-born dream.

She took my arm and advanced with me into a room adjoining the parlour. As we passed through the door, she suddenly squeezed my arm very tightly and laid her head against my shoulder.

We were in a small sitting-room, confronting Jasper Titus, his wife and his tiny grand-daughter, who was ready for bed.

"You won't have to worry about me any longer, daddy dear," said Aline, her voice suddenly breaking.

"Well, I'll be—well, well, well!" cried my late victim of the links. "Is this the way the wind blows?"

I was perfectly dumb. My face was scarlet. My dazzled eyes saw nothing but the fine, aristocratic features of Aline's mother. She was leaning slightly forward in her chair, and a slow but unmistakable joyous smile was creeping into her face.

"Aline!" she cried, and Aline went to her.

Jasper Titus led Rosemary up to me.

"Kiss the gentleman, kiddie," said he huskily, lifting the little one up to me.

She gave a sudden shriek of recognition, and I took her in my arms.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed I, without the slightest idea of what I was doing or why I did it. Sometimes I wonder if there has ever been any insanity in our family. I know there have been fools, for I have my Uncle Rilas's word for it.

Mr. Titus picked up the newspaper he had been reading.

"Listen to this, Allie. It will interest you. It says here that our friend Tarnowsy is going to marry that fool of a Cincinnati girl we were talking about the other day. I know her father, but I've never met her mother. Old Bob Thackery has got millions but he's only got one daughter. What a blamed shame!"

* * * * *

It must be perfectly obvious to you, kind reader, that I am going to marry Aline Tarnowsy, in spite of all my professed opposition to marrying a divorcee. I argued the whole matter out with myself, but not until after I was irrevocably committed. She says she needs me. Well, isn't that enough? In fact, I am now trying my best to get her to shorten the probationary period. She has taken off three months, God bless her, but I still hope for a further and more generous reduction—for good behaviour!

THE END