"I am glad you have heard something about him that is true," said Dorothy, a trifle quickly. "Usually they say that princes are all that is detestable and unmanly. I am sure you will like him, Phil."

Mrs. Garrison came up at this moment with Lady Marnham, and Quentin arose to greet the former as warmly as he could under the smooth veil of hypocrisy. Again, just before Lady Frances signaled to him that it was time for them to leave, he found himself in conversation, over the teacups, with Dorothy Garrison. This time they were quite alone.

"It doesn't seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I used to know," he said, reflectively.

"Have I changed so much?" she asked, and there was in her manner an icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip Quentin.

"In every way. You were charming in those days."

"And not charming now, I infer."

"You are more than charming now. That is hardly a change, however, is it? Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful. Then, you were--"

"I don't like flattery, Phil," she said, hurt by what she felt to be an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity.

"I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never said nice things unless I meant them. But, now that I think of it, it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old friend, and an old--er--chum."

"Won't you have a cup of tea?" she asked, as calmly as if he were the merest stranger and had never seen her till this hour.

"A dozen, if it pleases you," he said, laughingly, looking straight into the dark eyes she was striving so hard to keep cold and unfriendly.

"Then you must come another day," she answered, brightly.

"I cannot come to-morrow," he said.

"I did not say 'to-morrow.'"

"But I'll come on Friday," he went on, decisively. She looked concerned for an instant and then smiled.

"Lady Marnham will give you tea on Friday. I shall not be at home,"

she said.

"But I am going back to New York next week," he said, confidently.

"Next week? Are you so busy?"

"I am not anxious to return, but my man Turk says he hates London.

He says he'll leave me if I stay here a month. I can't afford to lose Turk."

"And he can't afford to lose you. Stay, Phil; the Saxondales are such jolly people."

"How about the tea on Friday?"

"Oh, that is no consideration."

"But it is, you know. You used to give me tea every day in the week." He saw at once that he had gone beyond the lines, and drew back wisely. "Let me come on Friday, and we'll have a good, sensible chat."

"On that one condition," she said, earnestly.

"Thank you. Good-bye. I see Lady Frances is ready to go. Evidently I have monopolized you to a somewhat thoughtless extent. Everybody is looking daggers at me, including the prince, who came in ten minutes ago."

He arose and held her hand for a moment at parting. Her swift, abashed glance toward Prince Ugo, whose presence she had not observed, did not escape his eyes. She looked up and saw the peculiar smile on Quentin's lips, and there was deep meaning in her next remark to him:

"You will meet the prince here on Friday. I shall ask him to come early, that he may learn to know you better."

"Thank you. I'd like to know him better. At what hour is he to come?"

"By 3:30, at least," she said, pointedly. "Too early to be correct, you suspect?"

"I think not. You may expect me before three. I am not a stickler for form."

"We shall not serve tea until four o'clock," she said, coldly.

"That's my hour for tea--just my hour," he said, blithely. She could not repress the smile that his old willfulness brought to her lips and eyes. "Thank you, for the smile. It was worth struggling for."

He was gone before she could respond, but the smile lingered as her eyes followed his tall figure across the room. She saw him pause and speak to Prince Ugo, and then pa.s.s out with Lady Saxondale. Only Lady Saxondale observed the dark gleam in the Italian's eyes as he responded to the big American's unconventional greeting. On the way home she found herself wondering if Dorothy had ever spoken to the prince of Philip Quentin and those tender, foolish days of girlhood.

"Has she lost any of the charm?" she asked.

"I am not quite sure. I'm to find out on Friday."

"Are you going back on Friday?" in surprise.

"To drink tea, you know."

"Did she ask you to come?"

"Can't remember, but I think I suggested it."

"Be careful, Phil; I don't want you to turn Dorothy Garrison's head."

"You compliment me by even suspecting that I could. Her head is set; it can't be turned. It is set for that beautiful, bejewelled thing they call a coronet. Besides, I don't want to turn it."

"I think the prince could become very jealous," she went on, earnestly.

"Which would mean stilettos for two, I presume." After a moment's contemplative silence he said: "By Jove! she is beautiful, though."

Quentin was always the man to rush headlong into the very thickest of whatever won his interest, whether it was the tender encounter of the drawing-room or the dangerous conflict of the field.

When he left Lady Marnham's house late on Friday afternoon he was more delighted than ever with the girl he had once loved. He was with her for nearly an hour before the prince arrived, and he had boldly dashed into the (he called them ridiculous) days when she had been his little sweetheart, the days when both had sworn with young fervor to be true till death. She did not take kindly at first to these references to that early, mistaken affection, but his persistence won. Before the prince arrived, the American had learned how she met him, how he had wooed and won, and how she had inspired jealousy in his hot Italian heart by speaking of the "big, handsome boy" over in New York.

He secured her permission to join her in the Row on Tuesday. There was resistance on her part at first, but he laughed it off.

"You should ask me to your wedding," he said, as the prince came in.

"But you will not be here."

"I've changed my mind," he said, calmly, and then smiled into her puzzled eyes. "Brussels, isn't it?"