y. From
that time on the duke stuck to him like a postage stamp, so that
Blakely had an awful time escaping that night to dine with Dad and
me. He told us all about the tea at dinner, and I was surprised to
learn (I hadn't seen him yet) that the duke was just Blakely's age,
and, as Blakely put it, "a very decent sort." Not that there is any
reason why a grand duke shouldn't be a decent sort, but Rumor was
busy just then proclaiming that this particular grand duke was a
perfect pig.

The next day I had a chance to judge for myself. It seems the duke
noticed me as I got into my automobile for my morning ride, and
after finding out who I was, sent for Blakely and demanded that I be
presented to him.

Blakely was awfully angry. He said: "Look here, I don't know what
you've been used to, but in this country, where a man wishes to meet
a young lady, he asks to be presented to her. Not only that, but he
doesn't take it for granted that she'll be honored by the request.
Miss Middleton is my fiancee. I don't know whether she cares to meet
you or not. If she does, I'll let you know." The duke was terribly
mortified. He apologized beautifully.

Then Blakely apologized for getting angry, and they became better
friends than ever, with the result that the duke was presented to me
that very afternoon.

The Grand Duke Alexander was short and fat and fair, with a yellow
mustache of the Kaiser Wilhelm variety. It was rather a shock to me,
for I had expected a dashing black-haired person with flashing eyes
and a commanding presence. No, he wasn't at all my idea of what a
grand duke should look like; he looked much more like a little
brother to the ox (a well-bred, well-dressed, bath-loving little
brother, of course) than a member of an imperial family. Not that he
didn't have his points: he had nice hands and nice feet, and his
smile was charming.

You should have seen his face light up when he found I spoke French.
The poor fellow wasn't a bit at home in the English language and the
eagerness with which he plunged into French was really pathetic.
Luckily, Blakely spoke French, too--not very well, but he understood
it lots better than he spoke it--so we three spent a pleasant hour
together on the veranda. Of course, in a way, it was a little
triumph for me; the women whom Blakely's mother had snubbed enjoyed
the sight immensely, and when she appeared, accompanied by Mrs.
Sanderson-Spear and some of the "Choicest Flowers," and saw