ard for
Mignon lay in a wholesome respect for her father's money. At heart he
was not a scoundrel, he was merely vain and selfish, and imbued with a
profound sense of his own importance. It had pleased his fancy to assume
the charge of the staging of the operetta, but now he was growing rather
tired of it and wished that it were over.

Long before this he and Mignon had come to a definite understanding
regarding the operetta. Mignon had informed him boldly that she wished
to sing the part of the Princess, and he had assured her that he would
arrange matters to her satisfaction. It, therefore, became incumbent
upon him to keep his word. He had begun his persistent annoying of
Constance, convinced that, unable to endure it, she would resign and
leave the field of honor free to the French girl. But Constance did
nothing of the sort. She stood her ground, half-heartedly at first, but
afterward, with Marjorie's words ringing in her ears, she exhibited a
steadiness of purpose that he could not shake.

At the dress rehearsal, the last before the public performance, she was
a brilliant success, compelling even his reluctant admiration. It was
now too late even to consider the possibility of Mignon replacing her,
and he informed the latter rather sheepishly of this, as he rode home
with her in her electric runabout.

For the first and last time he had the pleasure of seeing Mignon in a
royal rage, and when they reached her home, he declined her sullen offer
to send him home in her automobile, and made his escape with due speed.
Deciding he had had enough of amateurs and amateur operettas, he mailed
a note to Professor Harmon excusing himself from further service on the
plea of a telegram summoning him to New York. Whether the telegram were
a myth, history does not record. Sufficient to say that he actually went
to New York the following afternoon. And thus "The Rebellious Princess"
lost a stage manager and Mignon the hitherto chief factor in her plans.
She was also the recipient of an apologetic note from the actor, which
caused her to clench her hands in rage, then shrug her thin shoulders
with a gesture that did not spell defeat. Somehow, in some way, she
would accomplish her purpose. Even at the eleventh hour she would not
acknowledge herself beaten. Yet as the day wore on toward evening she
could think of nothing to do that would bring her her unreasonable
desire.

The operetta was to be sung in the Sanford Theatre, wher