ooking, with a fair complexion and a little sandy moustache, and
he carried himself with the air of a patrician, but his face lacked
character, and he had rather a weak chin. He had earned the reputation
of being one of the best-dressed men in London, had a host of friends,
most of whom called him "Tony," and he was talked of as "a good sport."

"Sure, and I wasn't showing off at all, at all, Tony," Myra Rostrevor
was saying to him in her soft, musical voice with a delightfully
attractive touch of the brogue. "It was Tiger here that was trying to
show off and make himself out to be my master.... Weren't ye, Tiger?"
She patted the sleek neck of her horse again as she spoke, and he
pricked his ears and tossed his head as if he understood. "There isn't
any horse or man who is going to master Myra Rostrevor," she added.

"That sounds like a challenge, Myra," drawled Tony Standish smilingly.
"How do you know but what I may adopt cave-man tactics after we are
married, and attempt to beat you into submission?"

Myra tossed her red-gold head much in the same way as her spirited
mount had tossed his, and trilled out a laugh.

"I think, Tony, you'd be even less successful than Tiger, and more
sorry for yourself than he is after your very first attempt," she
responded.

"So perhaps I'd better not make a first attempt, even in the hope of
getting a pat on the neck afterwards," laughed Tony.

There was pride and admiration in his pale blue eyes as he looked up at
the girl who had promised to marry him. He was the owner of many
priceless art treasures, none of which, however, was half as beautiful
in his eyes as Myra Rostrevor.

Her beauty was unique, and even in an assembly of lovely women she
would have attracted attention. Yet her features were not classically
perfect, her small nose had the faintest suspicion of tip-tilt, and
there was nothing stately or majestic about her. No one had ever
compared her to a Greek goddess, but even artists raved about her
beauty and charm, and competed for the privilege of painting her
portrait.

She was slim but shapely. Her hair was the auburn that Titian loved to
paint, with a golden gleam in it, as if a sunbeam had become entangled
and failed to escape. Her complexion, innocent of powder or cosmetics,
was clear and delicate as a rose-leaf but with the faintest tinge of
healthy tan. Her eyes, blue as summer seas, were fringed with long,
dark lashes, and she had an aggravating