nce; her
position--her family's and that of Miss Van Rolsen, was such that
newspaper advertising or notoriety could not but be distasteful.

"I hope people won't think I keep a social secretary," Mr. Heatherbloom
heard her say.

Yes, heard her. He was in the dogs' "boudoir"; the conservatory
adjoined. He could not help being where he was; he belonged there at the
time. Nor could he help hearing; he didn't try to listen; he certainly
didn't wish to, though she had a very sweet voice--that soothed one to a
species of lotus dream--forgetfulness of soap-suds, or the odor of
canine disinfectant permeating the white foam--

"Why should they think you have a social secretary?" the voice of a
man--the prince--inquired.

He had deep fine tones; truly Russian tones, with a subtle vibration in
them.

"Because when such things are published about people their secretaries
usually put them in," returned the girl.

He was silent a moment; Mr. Heatherbloom thought he heard the breaking
of the stem of a flower.

"You were very much irritated--angry?" observed the prince at length,
quietly.

"Weren't you?" she asked.

"I? No. It is a bourgeois confession, perhaps."

Mr. Heatherbloom sat up straighter; the water dripped from his fingers.

"I was pleased," went on the sonorous low voice. "I wished--it were so!"

There was a sudden movement in the conservatory; a rustling of leaves,
or of a gown; then--Mr. Heatherbloom relaxed in surprise--a peal of
merry laughter filled the air.

"How apropos! How well you said that!"

"Miss Dalrymple!" There was a slightly rising inflection in the man's
tones. "You doubt my sincerity?"

"The sincerity of a Russian prince? No, indeed!" she returned gaily.

"I am in earnest," he said simply.

"Don't be!" Mr. Heatherbloom could, in fancy, see the flash of a white
hand amid red flowers; eyes dancing like violets in the wind. He could
perceive, also, as plainly as if he were in that other room, the deep
ardent eyes of the prince downbent upon the blither ones, the commanding
figure of the man near that other slender, almost illusive presence. A
flower to be grasped only by a bold wooer, like the prince!

"Don't be," she repeated. "You are so much more charming when you are
not. I think I heard that line in a play once. One of the Robertson
kind; it was given by a stock company in San Francisco. That's where I
came from, you know. Have you ever been there?"

"No," said the prince slowly