e, with crowned
head, and breast covered with decorations, smiling fatuously from
within a rakish border of broken champagne glasses.

But there was worse to come. On another page under the heading:

WHIRLWIND WOOING WINS WESTERN GIRL

a distorted Cupid supported pictures of Blakely and me, while
beneath our pictures, a most fulsome chronicle of untruths was
presented. "Mr. Porter first met his fiancee on shipboard.....
Being of that fine old New York stock which never takes 'no' for an
answer, he followed her to Santa Barbara..... If rumor is to be
credited, the Grand Duke Alexander, as well as Cupid, was concerned
in this singularly up-to-date love affair..... Mr. Porter's sister,
the Countess de Bienville, is a well-known leader in exclusive
Parisian circles..... Miss Middleton an only daughter of Thomas
Middleton, the mining magnate..... Although slightly indisposed,
His Imperial Highness granted an interview to our representative
late last evening. If the time-worn adage, in vino veritas, is to be
believed; it is certain that the wedding will not only take place
soon, but that the favorite nephew of the Czar of all the Russias
will himself appear in this charming romance of throbbing hearts,
playing the role of best man."

It was really too dreadful; my cheeks burned with mortification and
anger.

People had assured me the horrid little American newspaper published
in Paris was not typical of America--that it was no more than a paid
panderer to seekers after notoriety. Yet here in California, my own
dear California, a newspaper had dared print my picture without my
consent, had thrown its ugly light on the sweet story of my love
serving it up in yellow paragraphs for the benefit of the bootblack,
the butcher, the waiter in cheap restaurants. What a hideous world!

Pleading a sick headache, I stayed in my room till tea time.

We had tea at five, Blakely and I, on the roof of the hotel. I
looked across the channel to the distant islands, followed the sweet
contour of the shore, watched the aimless flight of sea-gulls;
turning, I scanned the friendly hills, the mountains painted in the
tender colors of late afternoon--I looked into Blakely's eyes. It
was a beautiful world, after all. "Let's try and forget that awful
newspaper," I said.

"I forgot it long ago, dear."

"You also seem to have forgotten that some one may appear any
minute."

"Let's try and forget that some one may appear any minute."

"I c