sleep all day."

"Morning megrims!" cried Papa Claude, fresher than the proverbial daisy.
"What you need is a frolic with old Neptune! We bathe at eleven, go
aboard the _Minta_ at twelve, lunch at one. Pfingst's chef is an artist;
he can create a lobster Newburg that is an epic!" Papa Claude's tongue
made the circle of his lips as he spoke.

"I don't like lobster," Eleanor pouted; "and, what's more, I don't like
Mr. Pfingst."

"Nonsense, my love! Pfingst is a prince of good fellows. Very
generous--very generous indeed. Besides, there will be others on
board--Harold and Estelle and myself."

Eleanor laid her face against his sleeve.

"I wish you and I could run off somewhere for the day alone. I am so sick
of seeing those same people day in and day out. They never talk about
anything but themselves."

Papa Claude stroked her hair and smiled tolerantly. It was natural that
his little Eleanor should be capricious and variable and addicted to
moods. She was evidently acquiring temperament.

Some one tapped at the door, and he sprang to answer it.

"I've just been to your room, and the maid said you were in here," said
Harold Phipps's voice.

"Come right in!" cried Papa Claude, flinging wide the door. "We are just
discussing plans, and need you to cast the deciding vote."

"But I'm not dressed, Papa Claude!" expostulated Eleanor. "I still have
on my kimono."

"A charming costume," said Papa Claude--"one in which a whole nation
appears in public. I leave it to my distinguished collaborator: could any
toilet, however elaborate, be more becoming?"

Harold gave a light laugh as his glance rested with undisguised approval
on the slender figure in its clinging silk garment, the rosy hues of
which were reflected in the girl's flaming cheeks.

"Just stopped for a second, C. M.," Harold said, avoiding her indignant
eyes. "I wanted to tell you about the New York press notices. They are
simply superb! _Tribune_ has a column. The _Times_ and _Herald_ give us
a headliner. And even the old _Sun_ says there are passages in 'Phantom
Love' that might have been written by Moliere!"

"Where are the papers?" cried Papa Claude, prancing with excitement.

"I gave mine to Estelle. You can get them downstairs at the news-stand."

"I'll run down now--be back in a second." And Papa Claude rushed
impetuously from the room.

Eleanor and Harold stood facing each other where he had left them, he
with an air of apologetic amusement, a