intly.

"Because they are too young, too lovely, too dangerous," she responded
with fierce emphasis. "And as for Rosa in particular--as for Rosa in
particular--if you knew what I knew, what I've seen----"

"What have you seen?" I was bewildered. I began to wish that Sullivan
had not abandoned me to her.

"Perhaps I'm wrong," she laughed.

She laughed, and sat up straight again, and resumed her excellent
imitation of the woman of fashion, while I tried to behave as though I
had found nothing singular in her behavior.

"You know about our reception?" she asked vivaciously in another
moment, playing with her fan.

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Where have you been, Carl?"

"I've been in Edinburgh," I said, "for my final."

"Oh!" she said. "Well, it's been paragraphed in all the papers.
Sullivan is giving a reception in the Gold Rooms of the Grand Babylon
Hotel. Of course, it will be largely theatrical,--Sullivan has to mix
a good deal with that class, you know; it's his business,--but there
will be a lot of good people there. You'll come, won't you? It's to
celebrate the five hundredth performance of 'My Queen.' Rosetta Rosa
is coming."

"I shall be charmed. But I should have thought you wouldn't ask Rosa
after what you've just said."

"Not ask Rosa! My dear Carl, she simply won't go anywhere. I know for
a fact she declined Lady Casterby's invitation to meet a Serene
Highness. Sir Cyril got her for me. She'll be the star of the show."

The theatre darkened once more. There were the usual preliminaries,
and the orchestra burst into the prelude of the second act.

"Have you ever done any crystal-gazing?" Emmeline whispered.

And some one on the floor of the house hissed for silence.

I shook my head.

"You must try." Her voice indicated that she was becoming excited
again. "At my reception there will be a spiritualism room. I'm a
believer, you know."

I nodded politely, leaning over the front of the box to watch the
conductor.

Then she set herself to endure the music.

Immediately the second act was over, Sullivan returned, bringing with
him a short, slight, bald-headed man of about fifty. The two were
just finishing a conversation on some stage matter.

"Smart, let me introduce to you my cousin, Carl Foster. Carl, this is
Sir Cyril Smart."

My first feeling was one of surprise that a man so celebrated should
be so insignificant to the sight. Yet as he looked at me I could
somehow feel that here was an