hink, and it grows harder every minute. If Miriam St.
Regis is coming here, it means, like as not, she's filling in between
seasons, entertaining. Well, until she comes, they're all hearty
welcome to the mistake they've made. And afterward--troth! there'll
be a corner in her room for me the night, or Saint Michael's a
sinner; either way, 'tis all right."

The driver unbundled her and helped her out as courteously as he had
helped her in. He led the way across a broad veranda to the main
entrance, and there she fell behind him as he pushed open the great
swinging door.

"Oh, that you, Masters? Did Miss St. Regis come?"

"Sure thing, sir; she's right here."

The next moment Patsy stood in a blaze of lights between a personally
conducting chauffeur and a pompous hotel manager, who looked down
upon her with distrustful scrutiny. She was wholly aware of every
inch of her appearance--the shabbiness of her brown Norfolk suit,
the rakishness of her boyish brown beaver hat, and the vagabond
gloves. But of what value is the precedent of having been found
hanging on the thorn of a Killarney rose-bush by the Physician to
the King, of what value is the knowledge of past kinship with a
certain Dan O'Connell, if one allows a little matter of clothes to
spoil one's entrance and murder one's lines?

The blood came flushing back into Patsy's cheeks, turning them the
color of thorn bloom, and her eyes deepened to the blue of Killarney,
sparkling as when the sun goes a-dancing. She smiled--a fresh,
radiant, witching smile upon that clay lump of commercialism--until
she saw his appraisement of her treble its original figure.

Then she said, sweetly: "I have had rather a hard time getting here,
Mr. Blake; making connections in your country is not always as simple
as one might expect. My room, please." And with an air of a grand
duchess Patsy O'Connell, late of the Irish National Players, Dublin,
and later of the women's free ward of the City Hospital, led the way
across one of the most brilliant summer hotel foyers in America.

As she entered the elevator a young man stepped out--a young man with
a small, blond, persevering mustache, a rather thin, esthetic,
melancholy face, and a myopic squint. He wore a Balmacaan of Scotch
tweed and carried a round, plush hat.

Patsy turned to the bell-boy. "Did that man arrive to-night?"

"Yes, miss; I took him up."

"What is his name--do you know?"

"Can't say, miss. I'll find out, if you l