nds, and she
really liked Erica, and enjoyed the fun of initiating her into all the
mysteries and delights of society.

"How did you get your name?" she asked, suddenly. "It is so pretty and
so uncommon."

"Oh," said Erica, without thinking, "I was called after my father's
friend, Eric Haeberlein."

"Eric Haeberlein?" exclaimed Rose. "Why, I was reading something about
him this afternoon. Here it is look!" And after searching the columns of
her favorite "society" paper, she pointed to the following paragraph:

"It is now known as a positive fact that the notorious Eric Haeberlein
was actually in London last week in connection with the disgraceful
Kellner business. ON DIT that he escaped detection through the
instrumentality of one of the fair sex, whose audacity outweighed her
modesty."

Erica could hardly have restrained her indignation had not two real
dangers drawn off her attention from her own wounded feelings. Her
father was there any hateful hint that he was mixed up with Herr
Kellner? She glanced anxiously down the page. No, at least that
falsehood had not been promulgated. She breathed more freely, but there
was danger still, for Rose was watching her, and feminine curiosity is
hard to baffle.

"Did you know about it?" she asked.

Erica did not reply for a moment, but read on, to gain time; then she
threw down the paper with an exclamation of disgust.

"How can you read such stuff?"

"Yes, but is that the Eric Haeberlein you were named after? Did he
really come to London and escape?"

"There is only one Eric Haeberlein in the world that I know of," said
Erica. "But I think, Rose, I was wrong and foolish to mention him. I
can't tell you anything about him, and, even if I could, there is my
promise to Aunt Isabel. If I am not to talk to you about my father, I
certainly ought not to talk about his friends."

Rose acquiesced, and never suspected any mystery. She chatted on happily
for the rest of the evening, brought down a great collection of old
ball-cards, and with a sort of loving recollection described each very
minutely, just as some old nurses have a way of doing with the funeral
cards of their deceased friends. This paved the way for a spontaneous
confession that she really preferred Mr. Torn, the curate of St.
Matthew's, to Captain Golightly, though people were so stupid, and
would say she was in love with him just because they flirted a little
sometimes. Rose had already imagined herself in