if one doesn't mind what one pays," I answered; but I was nettled
that the girl could not have asked so simple a question herself. This is
not the first time she has employed a go-between, to find out something
which I alone know, and doubtless there will be more occasions, if I let
things go on as they are going now. But I don't mean to let them go on.
What I shall do, I haven't made up my mind; yet some step must be taken,
if I am to reap anything from this trip except a harvest of snubbings.

It was only a little thing that she should question me through her
chaperon, regarding the costumes; but it was one more straw in a rapidly
growing bundle. And on the way back to the hotel from the museum she
pretended not to hear when I spoke. She discussed with Starr, and not
with me, the splendors and the crudities of Amsterdam, and asked if he
didn't detect here and there a likeness to some old bit of New
York--"New Amsterdam." Of course he agreed; and they talked of the
"Dutchness" of Poughkeepsie and Albany, and Hudson, and many other
places which I never heard of. No wonder that there was triumph in the
glance he threw me. Alb (he was thinking, no doubt) was not getting much
fun for his money. And it was true. Nevertheless, Alb was not
discouraged. He was making up his mind that the time for quiet patience
was over, as the skipper of "Lorelei" had engaged for something better.

XVI

"By Jove, here's a lark!" exclaimed Starr, at the breakfast table,
looking up from the Paris _Herald_.

It was at the Amstel Hotel, on our fourth morning, and he and I were
taking coffee together, as an Ancient Mariner and his Albatross should.
The ladies had not yet appeared, for they were breakfasting in their
rooms.

"What's up?" I asked.

"It's under the latest news of your Queen's doings," said he, and began
to read aloud: "'Jonkheer Brederode, who is equally popular in English
and Dutch society and sporting circles, has taken for the season a large
motor-boat, in which he is touring the waterways of Holland, with a
party of invited friends, among whom is Lady MacNairne. It was her
portrait, as everybody knows, painted by the clever American artist, Mr.
R. L. Starr, which was so much admired at the Paris Salon this spring.'
Funny, how they strung that story together, isn't it? But it's a
bore--er--in the circumstances, their having got hold of my aunt's
name."

"People who weave tangled webs mustn't be surprised if they g