London--oh, scores, all American girls, some of whom
have made their influence felt constructively, as I can personally
assure you. American history is so uninteresting because there is not
a woman in it."

"You know the Marquise de Villiers!" exclaimed the girl. "Won't you
tell me, sometime, all about her? How interesting her story must be!
I have heard garbled versions of the Berlin incident."

"I do know her," the Prince smiled, as he thought how intimate his
knowledge was, "and I shall delight in telling you all about her
sometime. But now," he continued, "allow me to carry on my thought.
You travel--yes. You even live abroad as the, ah, butterfly--your own
word--lives. I know. Have not I heard of you! Have I not followed
you in the newspapers since I saw your face on canvas! I read from a
_dossier_ that I formulated concerning you." He drew a notebook from
his pocket and glanced at the girl. "May I?"

"It is yours," was the reply.

"January," he read, "Miss W. is tobogganing in Switzerland. February,
she is viewing the Battle of Flowers at Nice. March, she is at Monaco,
at Monte Carlo--ah! April, Miss W. has arrived in Paris. May and
June, she is in London. July, she is attending English race meetings
with young Clanclaren--" the Prince paused with a sibilant expulsion of
breath. "I must not read my comment."

"Yes, you must, please. I never heard of such a romantic Russian!"

The Prince raised his eyebrows and glanced at the book--"with young
Clanclaren, damn him! August," continued Koltsoff hurriedly, drowning
her subdued exclamation, "at Clanclaren's Scotch shooting box.
September, she is again in England, deer stalking--most favored deer!
October, November, she is riding to hounds in England. December, she
is doing the grand tour of English country houses." The Prince paused.
"So, our acquaintance--my acquaintance with you--is of more than a few
days. I have known you for more than a year. Do you find it not
agreeable?"

"Not agreeable! I don't know. I am--I--I--oh, I don't know, it seems
almost uncanny to me."

"Not at all, my dear Miss Wellington. Surely not uncanny. Let us
ascribe it to the genius of Sargent; to the inspiration of a face on
canvas."

"But you really haven't known me at all. You--"

He interrupted.

"Know you! Ah, don't I! I know you above these trivial things. The
world of affairs will feel the impress of your personality, of your
wit, your intel