action, however, that he saw on the boat the Misses Phenie and
Genie Forbes, of Chicago, the bright particular stars of the traveling
upper tendom. "Popper" and "Mommer" were deep in certain red-bound
Baedeker's and busied in delving for "historic facts," while the artful
Alan Hawke glided into a fast and familiar flirtation with the two
bright-eyed, sharp-voiced damsels. Both the heiresses were dressed as if
for a reception, with judiciously selected jewelry samples, evidencing
the wondrous success of machine conducted pig demolition. They glittered
in the sun as Fortune's bediamonded favorites.

And, so, while Madame Berthe Louison and Captain Anstruther lingered au
cabinet particulier, over their Chablis and Ostend oysters, the recouped
gambler extended his store of mental acquirement, by tender converse
with the two sprightly belles of the Windy City. In fact, the whistle
of the steamer was heard long before Alan Hawke could extricate himself
from the clinging tentacles of the audacious beauties. He was somewhat
repaid for his social exertions, however, as he sped back to keep his
tryst at Geneva, by the acquisition of a large steel-engraved business
card inscribed, "Forbes, Haygood & Co., Chicago," loftily tendered him
by "Popper." He smiled at the whispered assurances of the Misses Phenie
and Genie that they "should soon meet again."

"Bring your friend--that other Lord," cried the departing Miss Genie,
waving a thousand-franc lace fan, as she sagely observed, "Two's
company--three's none. We'll have a jolly lark--us four. Don't forget,
now!" The polite Major laid his hand upon his heart and played the
amiable tiger, although burning inwardly now, in a fierce personal
jealousy of Anstruther as he wandered alone around the cold gray halls
of the museum, and gazed upon the pinched features of the permanently
eclipsed shining lights of the "Bulwark of Civil and Religious Liberty."
There was no charm for him in the bigoted ferocity of Calvin's lean,
dark face, smacking his thin lips over the roasted Servetus. He abhorred
the departed heroes of the golden evolution from Eidegenossen into
Higuerios and later Huguenots. They interested him not, neither did he
love Professor Calame's scratchy pictures, nor the jumbled bric-a-brac
of art and history. None of these charmed him. He waited only for the
gliding step, the clasp of a burning hand, and the flash of the lustrous
dark-brown eyes. It was his own innings now.

He h