onvinced that I have."

"Good Lord, you don't mean to tell me that you are _hooked_?" he cried.

"I see no reason why you should use that particular tone," I answered
stiffly.

"Oh, come now; tell me all about it. Who is she, and when's the
wedding?"

"I don't know when the wedding's going to be, but I'm mighty sure that
I have met the one girl. Max, there never was a girl like her. Witty
she is, and wise; as beautiful as a summer's dawn; merry and brave;
rides, drives, plays the 'cello, dances like a moon-shadow; and all
that,"--with a wave of the hand.

"You've got it bad. Remember how you used to write poetry at college?
Who is she, if I may ask?"

"The Honorable Betty Moore, at present the guest of her Highness, the
Princess Hildegarde,"--with pardonable pride.

Max whistled. "You're a lucky beggar. One by one we turn traitor to
our native land. A Britisher! I never should have believed it of you,
of the man whose class declamation was on the fiery subject of
patriotism. But is it all on one side?"

"I don't know, Max; sometimes I think so, and then I don't."

"How long have you known her?"

"Little more than a month."

"A month? Everything moves swiftly these days, except European railway
cars."

"There's a romance, Max, but another besides her is concerned, and I
can not tell you. Some day, when everything quiets down, I'll get you
into a corner with a bottle, and you will find it worth while."

"The bottle?"

"Both."

"From rumors I've heard, this princess is a great one for larks; rides
bicycles and automobiles, and generally raises the deuce. What sort is
she?"

"If you are going to remain in Barscheit, my boy, take a friendly
warning. Do not make any foolish attempt to see her. She is more
fascinating than a roulette table."

This was a sly dig. Max smiled. A recent letter from him had told of
an encounter with the goddess of Monte Carlo. Fortune had been all
things but favorable.

"I'm not afraid of your princess; besides, I came here to study."

"And study hard, my boy, study hard. Her Highness is not the only
pretty woman in Barscheit. There's a raft of them."

"I'll paddle close to the shore," with a smile.

"By the way, I'll wake you up Thursday."

"How?"--lazily.

"A bout at Mueller's Rathskeller. Half a dozen American lads, one of
whom is called home. Just fixed up his passports for him. You'll be
as welcome as the flowers in the spring. Some of the