"And will you ever forget that magnificent winter night when we drove to Brookhollow after the party?"

"I have--remembered it."

"So have I.... Are you waiting for somebody? Of course you are," he added, laughing. "But may I sit down for a moment?"

"Yes, I wish you would."

So he seated himself, lighted a cigarette, glanced up at her and smiled.

"When did you come to New York?" he asked.

"Tonight."

"Well, isn't that a bit of luck to run into you like this! Have you come here to study art?"

"No.... Yes, I think, later, I am to study art here."

"At the League?"

"I don't know."

"Better go to the League," he said. "Begin there anyway. Do you know where it is?"

"No," she said.

He called a waiter, borrowed pencil and pad, and wrote down the address of the Art Students' League. He had begun to fold the paper when a second thought seemed to strike him, and he added his own address.

"In case I can do anything for you in any way," he explained.

Rue thanked him, opened her reticule, and placed the folded paper there beside her purse.

"I do hope I shall see you soon again," he said, looking gaily, almost mischievously into her grey eyes. "This certainly resembles fate.

Don't you think so, Rue--this reunion of ours?"

"Fate?" she repeated.

"Yes. I should even call it romantic. Don't you think our meeting this way resembles something very much like romance?"

She felt herself flushing, tried to smile:

"It couldn't resemble anything," she explained with quaint honesty, "because I am sailing for Europe tomorrow morning; I am going on board in less than an hour. And also--also, I----"

"Also?"--he prompted her, amused, yet oddly touched by her childishly literal reply.

"I am--married."

"Good Lord!" he said.

"This morning," she added, tasting her ice.

"And you're sailing for Europe on your honeymoon!" he exclaimed.

"Well, upon my word! And what is your ship?"

"The _Lusitania_."

"Really! I have a friend who is sailing on her--a most charming woman.

I sent flowers to her only an hour ago."

"Did you?" asked Rue, interested.

"Yes. She is a widow--the Princess Mistchenka--a delightful and pretty woman. I am going to send a note to the steamer tonight saying that--that my very _particular_ friend, Ruhannah Carew, is on board, and won't she ask you to tea. You'd love her, Rue. She's a regular woman."

"But--oh, dear!--a Princess!"

"You won't even notice it," he said rea.s.suringly. "She's a corker; she's an artist, too. I couldn't begin to tell you how nice she has been to me. By the way, Rue, whom did you marry?"

"Mr. Brandes."

"Brandes? I don't remember--was he from up-state?"

"No; New York--I think----"

As she bent forward to taste her ice again he noticed for the first time the childlike loveliness of her throat and profile; looked at her with increasing interest, realising that she had grown into a most engaging creature since he had seen her.

Looking up, and beyond him toward the door, she said:

"I think your friend is waiting for you. Had you forgotten him?"

"Oh, that's so!" he exclaimed. Then rising and offering his hand: "I wish you happiness, Rue. You have my address. When you return, won't you let me know where you are? Won't you let me know your husband?"

"Yes."

"Please do. You see you and I have a common bond in art, another in our birthplace. Gayfield folk are your own people and mine. Don't forget me, Rue."

"No, I won't."

So he took his leave gracefully and went away through the enthralling, glittering unreality of it all leaving a young girl thrilled, excited, and deeply impressed with his ease and bearing amid awe-inspiring scenes in which she, too, desired most ardently to find herself at ease.

Also she thought of his friend, the Princess Mistchenka. And again, as before, the name seemed to evoke within her mind a recollection of having heard it before, very long ago.

She wondered whether Neeland would remember to write, and if he did she wondered whether a real princess would actually condescend to invite her to take tea.

CHAPTER XI

THE BREAKERS