The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, July 26, 1903, Page 4

THE SUNDAY CALL. public restaurant instead of at her own private table. Philippe acquainted her with the ys and griefs of his diffi- There were fourteen New York, if, you meant any one. Of ¢ were not so many like Phil men of the world who had served the: time as assistants and their three years as sub-waiters; men who spoke English, French and German, who knew some- of cooking, how to dress a salad, ly such, it appeared, ve Gene- v a place for you when you were idle, and pald you eight dolare a week when you were sick. Ha the gualifications, one could earn twer dollars a month in salary and as much in g uities. come was never less than one dc rs a month; one who had come from master, after two seasons an acquires his pol rfection of manner, his finish, his Philippe never enough t post-gra a d’'Or, wher madame mparable C erations of kings, statesmen, —all the truly great. lips Casmir had toid him, the occasion when Dumas, 4 invited him to dinper that they iscuss the esoterfcs of salad nd sau also of the time Marguis St ses em smir for inventing the preciot at afterward became famous as Germine. And now the skilled nt Casmir had retired. It was The Maison d'Or—Paris— no longer be what they had been. that matter, since one must live Philippe preferred it to be in America, for in no other country could an adept uire so much mo And Philippe knew the whole dining world With Ce- and the baby, Paul, Philippe dweilt apartment that would really amaze ne by its appointments of luxury, y-eighth street, and only the r flights to climb. And Paul was three, largest of age, quite the largest, : Celine had ever be- brother of Celine and his a restaurant of their own Jle d’hote at two and one- the plate, withpwi swore they had never big, for his years, as Paul s0 Mrs. Bines grew actually to feel erest in ve creature and his affairs, and even fell » the f saying. I must come r wife and Paul some and Philippe, be- th.ought none the for believing that she did not sembers that prc ty-five epicures, travelling de acq: francs Mrs us side- a visit to the on an afternoon th nk of the boitom of a but that the worthy wo- ljteral-mindes r such only warned man to And then by a street sign she saw that me of Philippe. It e would be resting man found the num- i piied them- wonder as The waves either s the haliway the littie two cards appeared. » of the bells, the door my with a repeated double he toilsome climb. fell together be- breathed a moment and a door before her. A ithin called: ntrez!” and Mrs. Bines opened the It was the tiny kitchen of Philippe. Philippe himself, in shirt sleeves, sat in a chair tilted back close to the gas range the Courfer des Etats Unis in his hands and Paul on his lap. Celine froned the bosom of & gentleman’s white shirt on an froning board supported by the backs of two chairs. Hemmed In the corner by this board and by the gas range, seated at a table covered by the oficloth that simulates the marble of Italy’s most famous quargy, sat, undoubtedly, the Baron Ronauit VYe Palllac. A steaming plate of spaghetti a Ja Italien was before him, to his left a large bowl of salad, to his right a bottle of red wine. For a space of three seconds the entire party behaved as if it were being photo- graphed under time exposure. Philippe and the baby stared, motionless. Celine stared, resting no slight weight on the hot flatiron. The Baron Ronauit de Pal- liac stared, his fork poised in midair and festooned with gay little streamers of spaghettl. Then came smoke, the smell of scorch- ing linen and a cry of horror from Ceiine. “Ah, la seule chemise blanche de Mon- sieur le Baron!™ The spell was broken. Philippe was on his feet, bowing effusively. “Ah! it is Madam Bines. Je suis tres honore—I am very honored to welcome you, madame. It is madame, ma femme, Celine—and—Monsieur le Baron de Pal- lac—"" Philippe had turned with evident dis- tress toward the latter. But Philippe was only a waiter and had not behind him the centuries of schooling that enable a gentleman to remain a gentleman under adverse conditions. The Baron Ronault de Palliac arose with unruffled aplomb and favored the caller with his stateliest bow. He was at the moment a graceful and silencing re- buke to those who aver that manner and attire be interdependent. The Baron's manner was ideal, undiminished in voi- ume, faultiess as to decorative qualities. One fitted to savor its exquisite finish would scarce have noted that above his waist the noble gentleman was clad in a single woolen undergarment of revolu- tionary red. Or if such a one had observed this trifiing circumstance he would assuredly have treated it as of no value to the mo- ment; something to note, perbaps, and then gracefully to forget The baron’s own behavior would have served as a model. One swift glance had shown him there was no way of instant retreat. That being impossible, none other was graceful: hence none other was to be considered. He permitted himself not to even glance at the shirt upon whose fair defenseless bosom the iron of the overcome Ceiine had burned its cruel brown imprimature. Mrs. Bines had greeted him as he would have wished unconscious, apparently, ihat there could be cause for embarrassment. “Ah! madame,” he said, handsomely, “you see me, [ unfast with the fork. You see me here, I have envy of the simple life. 1 am content of to do it— comme ca—as that, see you,” waving In the direction of his unfinished repast. “All that magnificence of your grand ho- tel, there is not the why of it, the most big of the world, and suchly stupefying, with its ‘infernil rackit,’ as you say. And of more—what droll of{idea, enough cu- rious, by example! to dWell with the good Philippe and his femme} amiable. Their hotel is of the most littles, Lut I rest here volunteerly since longtime. Is it that one an to comprehend living the vast hotel American?” “Monsieur le Baron lodges with us; we have so much of the chambers,” ventured Celine. “Monsieur le Baron wishes to retire to his apartment,” said Philippe, raising the ironing-board. *““Will madame be so good to enter our petlt salon at the freat, n est-ce-pas?” The baron stepped forth from his cor- ner and bowed himself graciously out. “Madame, my compliments—and to the adorable Mile. Bines! Au revoir, mad- ame—to the soontime—avant peu—before little!” On the farther side of his closed door the Baron Ronault de Palliac swore— once. .But the oath was one of the most awful that a Frenchman may utter in his native tongue: “Sacred Name of a Name!" “But the baron wasn't done eating,” protested Mrs. Bines. ““Ah, yes, madame!” replied Philippe. “*Monsfeur le Baron has consumed enough for now. Paul, mon enfant, ne touche pas la robe de madame! He is large, i he not, madame, as 1 have teld you? A monster, yes?" Mrs. Bines, stooping, took the and wide-eyed Paul up in her Whereupon he began to talk so fast to her in French that she set him quickly down again, with the slightly helpless air of one whe has picked up an innocent- looking clocK only to have the clang.ng alarm go suddenly off. “Madame will honor our little salon.” urged Philippe, opening the door and bowing low. “Quel dommage!” sighed Celine, mov- ing after them; “la seule chemise blanche de Monsieur le Baron. Eh blen! {1 faut lui en acheter une autre!” At dinner that evening Mrs. Bines re- lated her adventure, to the unfeigned de- light of her graceless son, and to the somewhat troubled amazement of her daughter. “And, do you “maybe he isn't anr “Oh, 1 guess he's a regular one all right,” said Percival; *“only perhaps he hasn’t worked at it much lately.” “But his sitting there eating in that— that shirt—" said his sister. “My dear young woman, even the no- bility are prey to climatic rigors; they are obliged, like the wretched low-born such as ourselves, to wear—pardon me— undergarments. Again, I understand from Mrs. Cadwallader here that the article in on was safisfactory and fit—red, I believe you say, Mrs. Terwilliger?” “Awful red!” replied his mother—‘“and they call their parlor a saloon.” “And of necessity, even the noble have their moments of deshabille.” “They needn’t eat their lunch way,” declared his sister, “Is deshabille French for under- clothes?” asked Mrs. Bines, struck by the word. “Partly,” answered her son. “And the way that child of Philippe's jabbered French! It's wonderful how they can learn sg-young.” “They begin early, you know,” Percival explained. “And as to our friénd the Baron, I'm ready to make book that sis doesn’t see him again, except at a dis- tance.” Some time afterwards he computed the round sum he might have won if any such bets had been made; for his sister's list of suitors, to adopt his own lucent phrase, was thereafter “shy a Baron.” limp arms. know,” she ventured, a regu.ar bzr‘.m. after that CHAPTER XXIIL SUMMER MPAIGN PLANNED. Winter waned and spring charmed the land into blossom. The city-pent, as we have intimated, must take this season largely on faith. If one can find a‘patch of ground naked of stone or asphalt one may feel the heart of the earth beat. But even now the shop-windows are more in- spiring. At least they copy the outer show. Tender-hued shirt-waists first push up their sprouts of arms through the winter furs and woolens, quite as the first violets out in the woodland and thrust themselves up through the brown carpet of leaves. Then every window be- comes a summery glade of lawn, tulle, and chiffon, more lavish of tints, shades and combinations, indeed, than ever na- ture dared to be. Outside, where the unspolled earth be- gins, the blossoms are clouding the trees with 2 mist of pink and white, and the city-dweller knows it from the bloom and foliage of these same windows. Then it is that spring “‘get away” urge is felt by each prisoner, by those able o obey it, and by those, alike, who must ‘wear it down in the groomed and sophis- ticated wildness of the city parks. On a morning late in May Mrs. Bines and her daughter were at breakfast. “Isn’'t Percival coming?”’ ked his mother. “Everything will be cold. “Can’t say,” Psyche answered. “I don’t even know if he came in last night. But don’t worry about cold things. You can't get them too cold for Perce at breakfast, nowadays. He takes a lot of icewater and a little something out of the decanter and mavbe some black coffee.” & “Yes, and I'm sure it's bad for him. He doesn’t 100k a bit healthy and hasn’t since he quit eating breakfast. He used to be such a hearty eater at breakfast, steaks and bacon and chops and eggs and waffles. It was a sight to see him eat; and since he's quit taking anything but that c6ld stuff he's lost his color and his eyes don't look right. I know what he's got hold of—it's that ‘no-breakfast’ fad. I heard avout it from Mrs. Balldridge when we came here last fall. I never did believe in it, either.” The object of her solicitude entered in dressing gown and slippers. “I'm just telling Psyche that this no- breakfast fad is hurting your health, my son. Now do come and eat like you used to. You began to look bad as soon as you left off your breakfast. It's a silly fad, that's what it is. You can’t tell me!” The young man stared at his mother until he had mastered her meaning. Then he put both hands to his head and turned to the sideboard as if to conceal his emo- tion. “That's it,” he sald, as he busied him- self with a tall g.ass and the cracked ice. “It's that ‘no-breakfast’ fad. . didn't THE 18 think you knew about it. The fact is,” he continued, gouring out a measure of brandy and dirpcting the butler to open a bottle of soda, “we all eat much. After a night of sound sleep we awaken refreshed and buoyant, all our forces re- plenish thirsty, of course, but not hun- gry”’—he sat down to the table and placed both hands again to his head—‘“and we have no need of food. Yet such is the force of custom that we deaden ourselves for the day by tanking up on coarse, loathsome stuff like bacon. Ugh! Any one would think, the way you two eat so early in the day, that you were a couple of cave-dwellers—the kind that al- ways loaded up when they had a chance because it might be a week before they got another.” He drained his glass and brightened vis- ibly. “Now, why not be reasonable?” he con- tinued, pleadingly. “You know there is plenty of food. I have observed it being brought into town in huge wagon loads in the early morning on many occasions. Why do you want to eat it all at one sitting? No one's going to starve you. Why stupefy yourselves when, by a little nervy self-denial, you can remain as fresh and bright and clear-headed as I am at this moment? Why doesn't a fire make its own escape, Mrs. Carstep-Jam- wuddle?” “I don’t believe you feel right, either. 1 just know you've got an awful headache right now. Do let the man give you a nice plece of this steak.” “Don’'t, I beg of you, Lady Ashmorton! The suggestion is extremely repugnant to me. Besides, I'm behaving this way be- cause 1 arose with the purely humorous faney that my head was a fine large ac- cordion and that some meddler had drawn it out too far. I'm sportively pretending that I can press it back into shape. Now you and sis never get up with any 'such light poetic notien as that. You know you don't—don’t attempt to decelve me.” He glanced over the table with swift dis- approval. “‘Strawberries, oatmeal, rolls, steak three inches thick, bacon, omelette—oh, that I should live to see this day! It's disgrace- ful! And at your age—before your own innocent woman-child and leading her into the same excesses. Do you know what that breakfast 1s? No; I'll tell you. That breakfast is No. 78 in that book of Mrs. Rorer’s, and she’expressly warns every- body that it can be eaten safely only by steeple climbers and piano movers and sea captains. Really, Mrs. Wrangleberry, I blush for vou. v “I don't care how you go on. You aln't looked well for months.” * “But think of my great big heart—a heart like an ox"'—he seemed on the verge of tears—'‘and to think that you, a woman I have never treated with anything but respect since we met in Honduras in the fall of '83—to think you should throw it up to my own face that I'm not beautiful. Others there are, thank God, who can look into a man’s heart and prize him for what he is—not condemn him for his mere superficial blemishes.” “And I just know you've got in with a fast set. 1 met Mr. Milbrey yesterday in the corridor—"" “Did he tell you to make a lovely as- paragus shortcake or something?” “He told me tnose men you go with so much are dreadful gamblers and that when you all went to Palm Beach last February you played poker night and da. and you told me you went for your health.” “Oh, he did, aid he? Well, T didn’t get anything else. He's a dear old soul, if you've got the copper handy. It that man was a woman he'd be a warm nelghbor- hood gossip. He'd be the nice, kind old lady that starts things, that's what Hod- dy Milbrey would be.” “And you said yourself you played pok- er most of the time when you went to Aiken on the car last month.” “To be honest with you, ma, we did play poker. Say, they took it off of me so fast I could feel myself catching cold.” “There, you see—and you really ought to wear one of those chamois skin chest protectors in this damp climate.” “Well, we'll see. If I can find one that an ace full won't go through I'll snatch it s0 quick the man'll think he’s being rob- bed. Now °T'll join you ladies to the ex- tent of some coffee, and then I want to know what you two would rather do this summer than.” “Of course,” sald Psyche, “no one stays in town in summer.” “Exactly. And I've chartered a steam yacht as big as this hotel—all but— But what 1 want to know/is whether you two care to bunk on it or whether you'd rather stay quietly at some place, New- port, perhaps, and maybe take a crulse with me now and then.” “Oh, that would be good fun. But here's ma getting so I can’t do a thing with her, on account of all those beggars and nor- rid people down in the slums.” Mrs. Bines looked gullty and feebly dep- recating. It was quite true that in her own way she had achieved a reputation for prodigality not inferior to that ac- quired by her children in ways of their own.” “You know it's so, ma,” the daughter went on, accusingly. ““One night last win- ter when you were away we dined at the Balldridge, in Eighty-sixth street, and the pavements were so sleety the horses couldn’t stand, so Colonel Balldridge brought us home in the elevated about 11 o'clock. Well, at one of the stations a big policeman got on with a little baby all wrapped up in red flannel. He'd found it in an area way, nearly covered with snow—where some one had left it, and he was taking it down to police headquar- ters, he said. Well, ma went crazy right away. She made him undo it and thea she insisted on holding it all the way down to Thirty-third street. One man said it might be President of the United States some day; and Colonel Balldridge sald, ‘Yes, it has unknown possibllities— it may even be a President’s wife'—just like that. But I thought ma would be demented. It was all fat and so warm and sleepy it could hardly hold its eyes open, and I belleve she'd have kept it then and there if the policeman would have lét her. She made him promise to get it a bottle of warm milk the first thing, and borrowed $20 of the colonel to give to the policeman to get it things with and then all the way down she talked agalnst the authoritles for allowing such things—as if they could help it—and when ‘we got home she cried—you know you did, ma—and you pretended it wes toothache— and ever since then she's been perfectly daft about babies. Why, whenever she sees a woman going along with.one she thinks the poor thing is going to leave it some place; and now she's In with the charity workers and says she won't leave New York at all this summer.” “I don’t caye,” protested the guilty mother, “it would have frozen to death in just a little while and it's done so of- ten. Why, up at the Catholic Protectery they put out a basket at the side door, 80 a body can leave their baby in it and ring the bell and run away; and they get one twice a week sometimes; and this was such a sweet, fat little baby with big blue eyes and its forehead wrinkled and {c was all puckered up around its little nose—— “And that isn't the worst of it,”” the relentless daughter broke in. “She gets begging letters by the score and gives money to all sorts of people, and a man from the Charitles Organization. who had heard about ft, came and warned her that they were im- postors—only she doesn’t care. Do you know, there was a poor old blind woman with a dismal, wheezy, organ down at Broadway and Twenty-third street—the organ would hardly play at all, and just one wretched tune—only the woman wasn’t blind at all we found out—and ma bought her a nice new organ that cost seventy-five dollars and had it taken to her. Well, she found out through this man from the Organization that the wo- man pawned the new organ for twenty dollars and was still playing on the old one. She didn’t want a new one because it was too cheerful; it didn't make people sad when they heard it, llke her old one did. And yesterday ma bought an In- dian —" “A what?" askéd her brother, in amaze- ment. “An Indian—a tobacco sign.” “You don’t mean it? One of those lads that stand out in front and peer under their hands to see what palefaces are moving into the house across the street? Say, ma, what you going to do with him? There isn’t much room here, you know.” “I didn’t buy him for myself,” replied Mrs. Bines, with dignity; *“I wouldn't want such an object.” “She bought it,” explained his sister, “for an Itallan woman who keeps a little tobacco-shop down in Rivington street. A man goes around to repaint them, you know, but hers was so battered that this man told her it wasn’t worth painting again, and she'd better get another, and the woman said she didn’t know what to do because they cost twenty-five dollars for a new one.” “But. she has to support flve children, and her husband hasn’t been able to work for three years, since he fell through a fire-escape where he was sleeping one hot night,” pleaded Mrs. Bines, “and I think I'd rather stay here this summer. Just think of all those poor babies when the weather gets hot. I never thought there were s0 many bables in the world.” “Well, have your own way,” sald her son. “If you've started out to look after all the bables in New York you won't have any time left to play the races, I'll promise you that.” . “Well, my son, I never—"" “‘But sis here would probably rather do other things.” “I think,” said Psyche, “I'd like New- port—Mrs. Drelmer says I shouldn’'t think of going away any place else. Only, of course, I can’t go there alone. She says she would be glad to chaperone me, but her husband hasn’t had a very good year in Wall street, and she’s afraid she won't be able to go herself.” ““Maybe,’ began Mrs. Bines, “if you'd she’d be offended,” exclaimed 80 sure of that,” said her brother, “not if you suggest it in the right way—put it on the ground that you'll be quite helpless without her, and that she'd oblige you world without end and all that. The more I see of people here the more I think they're quite rea- sonable in little matters llke that. They look at them in the right light. Just lead up to it delicately with Mrs. Drelmer and see. Then if she's willing to go with you, your summer will be provided for; ex- cept that we shall both have to look in upon Mrs. Juzzlebraggin here now and then to see that she doesn't overplay the game and get sick herself, and make sure that they don’t get her vaccination mark away from her. And, ma, you'll have to come off on the yacht once or twice, just to give it tone.” It appeared that Percival had been right in supposing that Mrs. Drelmer might be led to regard Psyche's proposal in a light entirely rational. She was reluctant, at first, it is true. “It's awfully dear of you to ask me, child, but really I'm afraid it will be quite impossible. Oh!—for reasons which you, of course, with your endless bank- account, cannot at all comprehend. You see we old New York families have a se- cure position here by right of birth; and even when we are forced to practice lit- tle economies in dress and household man- agement it doesn't count against us—so long as we stay here. Now, Newport is different. One cannot economize grace- fully there—not even one of us. There are quiet and very decent places for those of us that must. But at Newport one must not fall behind in display. A sense of loyalty to the others, a nob- lesse oblige, compels one to be as lavish as those flamboyant outsiders who go there. One doesn’t want them to report, you know, that such and such families of our smart set are falling behind for lack of means. So, while we of the real stock .are chummy enough here, where there is only us in a position to observe ourselves, there is a sort of tacit agree- ment that only those shall go down to Newport who are able to keep up the pace. One need not, for one reason or so, be a cottager; but, for example, in the matter of dress, one must be sinfully lav- ish. Really, child, I could spend three months in the Engadine for the price of one decent month at Newport; the para- sols, gloves, fans, shoes, ‘frillies’—enough to stock the Rue de la Paix, to say noth- ing of gowns—but why do I run on? Here am I with a few little slmple summer things, fit enough indeed for the quiet but ab-so-lute-ly impossible for Newport— so say no more about it, dear. You're a sweet—but it's madness to think of it.” “And I bad,’” reported Psyche to her mother that night, ‘“such a time getting her to agred. At first she wouldn't listen at all. Then, after I'd just fairly begged her, she admitted she might because she's taken such a fancy to me and hates to leave me—but she was sensitive about what people might say. I told her they'd never have a chance to say a word; and she was anxious Perce shouldn’t know, because she says he's so cynical about New York people since that Milbrey girl made such a set for him; and at last she called me a dear and consented, though she'd been looking forward to a quiet summer. To- morrow early we start out for the shops.” So it came that the three members of the Bines family pursued during the sum- mer their respective careers of diversion under conditions most satisfactory to each. The steam yacht Viluca, chartered by Percival, was put into commission early in June. Her first crulse of ten days was a signal trlumph. His eight guests were the men with whom he had played poker so tirelessly dul the winter. Perhaps the most 1llumli ng log of that cruise may be found in the reply of one of them whom Percival invited for another early in July. “Much obliged, old man, but I haven't touched a drop now in over three weeks My doctor says I must let it be for at least two months, and I mean to stick by him. Awfully kind of you, though!” CHAPTER XXIV. THE SIGHT OF A NEW BEAUTY, AND SOME ADVICE FROM HIGBEE. From the landing on & still morning in late July, Mrs. Dreimer surveyed the fiset of sailing and steam yachts at anchor in Newport harbor. She was beautifully and expensively gowned in nun’'s grey chiffon; her toque was of chiffon and lace, and she held a pale grey parasol, its ivory handle studded with sapphires. She fixed a glass upon one of the white, sharp-nosed steam yachts that rode in the distance near Goat Island. 4 “Can you tell me if #hat's the Viluca she asked a sailor landing from a dingh “that boat just astern of the schooner?" “No ma’'am; that’s the Alta, Commcdote Weckford.” “Looking for some one?" inquired a voice, and she turned to greet Fred Mil- brey descended the steps. “Oh! good morning! yes; but they've not come in, evidently. It's the Viluca— Mr. Bines, you know; he's bringing his sister back to me. And you?” “I'm expecting the folks on Shepler's craft. Been out two weeks now, and were to have come down from New Lon- don last night. They're not in sight either. Perhaps the gale last night kept them back.” X Mrs. Drelmer glanced above to where some one seemed to be waiting for him. “Who's your perfectly gorgeous com- panion? You've been so devoted to her for three days that you've hardly bowed to old friends. Don’t you want her to know any one?” The young man laughed with an air of great shrewdness. “Come, now, Mrs. Drelmer, you're too good a friend of Mauburn's—about his marrying, I mean. You fixed him to tackle me low the very first half of one game we know about, right when I was making a fine run down the fleld, too. I'm going to have better interference this time.” “Silly! Your chances are quite as good as his there this moment.” “You may think so; I know better.” “And of course, in any other affair, I'd never think of—"" “P'r'aps so; but I'd rather not chance it just yet.” “But who is she? What a magnificent mop of hair. It's like that rich piece of ore Mr. Bines showed us, with copper and gold in {t.” “Well, I don't mind telling you she's the widow of a Southern gentleman, Colonel Brench Wybert.” “Ah, indeed! I did notice that two-inch band of black at the bottom of her ac- cordeon-plaited petticoat. I'll wager that's a Rue de la Paix idea of mourning for one's dead husband. And she con- fides her grief to the world with such charming discretion. Half the New York women can’t hold their skirts up as daintily as she does it. I dare say, now, her tears could be dried?—by the right comforter?” Milbrey looked important. *“And I don’t mind teiling you the late Colonel Brench Wybert left her a fortune made in Montana copper. Can’t say how much, but two weeks ago she asked the governor’'s advice about where to put a spare million and a half in cash. Not so bad, eh?” this they get it? “How old, now, should you say she was?" Mrs. Drelmer glanced up again at the color-scheme of heliotrope seated in a vie- toria upholstered in tan brocade. “Thirty-five, 1 should say—about. Just twenty-eight.”” “Just about what I should say—she'd is new plutocracy! Where do “‘Come now, you women can't help it, can you? But you can't deny she’s stun- ning?" “Indeed I can't! She's a beauty—and, good luck to you. Is that the Viluca com- ing in? No: it has two stacks; and it's not your people because the Lotus is black. I shall go back to the hotel. Bertie Trafford brought me over on the trolley. I must find him first and do an errand in Thames street.” At the head of the stairs they parted, Milbrey joining the lady who had waited for him. Hers was a person to gladden the eye. Her figure, tall and fuu, was of a grace- ful and abundant perfection of contours; her face, precisely carved and showing the faintly generous rounding of matur- ity, was warm in coloring, with dark eyes, well shaded and languorous; her full lips betrayed their beauty in a ready and fascinating laugh; her voice was a rich, warm contralto, and her speech bore just a hint of the soft r-less drawl of the South, She had blazed into young Milbrey's darkness one night in the palm-room of the Hightower Hotel, escorted by a pleased and beefy youth of his acquaint- ance, who later told him of their meeting at the American embassy in Paris, and who unsuspectingly presented him. Since their meeting the young man had been her abject cavaller. The elder Milbrey, too, had met her at his son's suggestion. He had been as deeply impressed by her helplessness in the matter of a million and a half dollars of idle funds as she had been by his aristocratic bearing and enviable position in New York society. “Sorry to have kert you waiting. The Lotus hasn't come in sight yet. Let's loaf over to the beach and have some tall, cold ones.” “Who was your elderly friend?” she asked, as they were driven slowly up the old-fashioned street. “Oh! that's Joe Drelmer. She’'s not so old, you know; not a .ay over 40, Joe can’t be; fine old stock; she was a Ley- denbroek and her husband's family is one of the very oldest in New York. Awfully exclusive. Down to meet friends, but they'd not shown up, either. That re- minds me: they're friends of ours too, and I must have you meet them. They're from your part of the country—the Bines."” “The—ah—" P “Blnes; family from Montana: decent enough sort; didn’t know but you might have heard of them, being from your part of the country.” “Ah, I never think of that vulgar West as ‘my part of the colntry’ at all. My part is dear old Virginia, where my fath- er, General Tulver, and his father and his father's father all lived the lives of country gentlemen, after the family came here from Devonshire. It was there Col- onel Wybert wooed me, though we later removed to New Orleans.” Mrs. Wybert called it “New Aw-leens. “But it was not until my husband be- came interested in Montana mines that we ventured into that horrid West. So do remember not to confound me with your Western—ah—Bones—was it not?” “No, Bines; they’ll be here presently, and you can meet them, anyway.” *“Is there an old fellow—a queer old character, with them?"” “No, only a son and daughter and a mother.” “Ot course I sha’'n’t mind meeting any friends of yours,” she said, with charming graciousness, “‘but, really, 1 always understood that you Knicker- bockers were vastly more exclusive. I do recall this name now. I remember hearing tales of the family in Spokane. They're a type. you know.¥ One sees many of the sort there. They make a strike in the mines and set up ridiculous establishments regardless of expense. You see them riding in their carriages with two men. in the box—red-handed, grizzied old vuigarians who've roughed it In the mountains for twenty vears with a pack- mule and a ham and a pick-ax—with thelr jug of whisky—and their frowsy red-faced wives decked out in impossible flnery. Yes, I do recall this family. There is a daughter, you say?" “Yes; Miss Psyche Bines." “Psyche; ah, : it's the same family. I recollect perfectly now. You know they tell the funniest tales of them out there Her mother found the name ‘Psyche’ a book, and liked it, but she pronounced it “Pishy,’ and so the girl was called until she became old enough to go to school and learned better.” “Dear me: fancy now!” “And there are countless mother's sayings Once a gentleman whom they were visiting in San Fran- cisco was showing her a cabinet of curios. ‘Now, don't you find the Pompeiian fig- urines exquisite?” he asked her. The poor creature, after looking around her help- lessly, declared that she did like them, but that she liked the California nectar- ines better—they were so much jucfer.” “You don't tell me: gad! that was a good one. Qh, well, she's a meek, harm- less old soul, and really, my family's not the snobbish sort, you know. In from the shining sea late that after- noon steamed the Viluca. As her chain was rattling through the hawse-hole, Percival, with his sister and Mauburn, came on deck. “Why, there's yacht. “That's the boa* ** sald Mauburn, “that’s been piling the white water up in front of her all afternoon trying to overhaul tales of the the Chicago—Higbee's ‘There’s Millle Higbee and old Silas, now. “And, as I live,” exclaimed Psyche, “there's the Baron de Palliac between them!" “Sure enough,” !Ald her brother. “We must call ma up to see him dressed in those sweet, pretty yachting flannels. Oh. there you are!” as Mrs. Bines joined them. “Just take this glass and treat yourself to a look at your old friend, the baron. You'll notice he has one on—see— they’re waving to us.” “Doesn’t the baron look just too distin- guished beside Mr. Higbee?" said Psyche, watching them. “And doesn’t Higbee look just too Chi- cago beside the baron?’ replied her brother. The Higbee craft cut her way grace- fully up to an anchorage near the Viluca and launches from both yachts now pre- pared to land their people. At the land- ing Percival telephoned for a carriage. While they were waiting the Higbee party came ashore. “Hello!” said Higbee, “if I'd known that was you we was chasing I'd ha put on steam and left you out of sight. “It's much better you didn’t recognize hese boiler explosions are so messy."” {now the baron here?” Of course we know the baron. baron!™ “Ah, ha! very charmed, Mr. Bines and Miss Bines; it is of a long time that we are not encountered.” He was radiant; they had never before seen him thus. Mrs. Higbee hovered near him with an air of proud ownership. Pretty Millie Higbee posed gracefully at her side. “This your carriage?” asked Higbee; “I must telephone for one myself. Go- ing to the Mayson? So are we. See you again to-night. We're off for Bar Harbor early to-morrow.” “Looks if there were something do- ing there,” said Percival, as they drove off the wharf. “Of course, stupid!” sald his sister; “that's plain; only it isn't doing, it's al- ready done. Isn't it funny, ma?” “For a French person,” observed Mrs. Bines, guardedly, “I always liked the baron.” “Of course,” said her son, to Mauburn's mystification, “and the noblest men on this earth have to wear "em.” The surmise regarding the Baron de Palliac and Millle Higbee proved to ba correct. Percival came upon Higbee in the meditative enjoyment of his after- dinner cigar, out on the broad piazza. 1 s’pose you're on,” he began; “the engaged to that Frenchy.” said Percival, Ah, girl’ “I congratulate him,” heartily. “A real baron,” continued Higbee. T looked him up and made sure of that; title's good wheat. God knows that never would 'a’ got me, but the madam ‘was set on it, and the girl too, and I had to give In. It seemed to be a question of him or some actor. The madam said I'd had my way about Hank, puttin’ his poor stubby nose to the grindstone out there in Chicago, and makin’ a plain in- significant business man out of him, and T'd ought to let her have her way with the girl, being that I couldn’t expect her to go to work too. So Mil will work the society end. I says to the madam, I says, *All right, have your own way; and we'll see whether you make more out of the girl than I make out of the boy,” I says. But it ain’t going to be all digging up. (Continued next Sunday.) —————— DR. CHARLES FLESH FOOD For the Form and Complexion. Has been success- fully used by lead- ing actresses, sing- ers and women of fashion for more wasting tissues. Removing Pimples As It by magle, one application often showing a remark. <+ able Improvement. DR. 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