"That's what I'd like to know," I added. "It may be that, in your

haste, you have confused in your mind, Jimmy, some portrait with that

of the Princess Amèlie Louise, of Furstenburg." (I had indeed

sometimes commented on the likeness of Helena Emory to that

light-hearted old-world beauty.) Jimmy did not know that a photograph

of the princess herself, also, stood upon the piano top, nor did he

fully grasp the truth of that old saying that the hand is quicker than

the eye. At least, he gazed somewhat confused at the portrait which I

now produced before his eyes.

"Who was she?" he inquired.

"A very charming young lady of rank, who eloped with a young man not

of rank. In short, although she did not marry a chauffeur, she did

marry an automobile agent. And surely, Jimmy, your Auntie

Helen--whoever she may be--would do no such thing as that and still

claim to be a cousin of a L'Olonnois?"

"I don't know. You can't always tell what a girl's going to do," said

Jimmy sagely. "But I don't think Auntie Helen's going to marry a auto

man."

"Why, Jimmy?" (I found pleasure and dread alike in this conversation.) "Because everybody says she's going to get married to Mr. Davidson,

and he's a commission man."

Now, I am sure, my face did not flush. It may have paled. I tried to

be composed. I reached for the melon dish and remarked, "Yes? And who

is he? And really, who is your Auntie Helena, Jimmy, and what does she

look like?" I spoke with a fine air of carelessness.

"She looks like the princess, you said," replied Jimmy. "And Mr.

Davidson's rich. He's got a house on our lake, this summer, and he

lives in New York and has offices in Chicago, and travels a good deal.

He has some sort of factory, too, and he's awful rich. I like him

pretty well. He knows how all the ball clubs stand, both leagues,

every day in the year. You ought to know him, because then you might

get to know my Auntie Helena. If they got married, like as not, I

could take you up to their house. I thought everybody knew Mr.

Davidson, and my Auntie Helena, too."

Everybody did. Why should I not know Cal Davidson, one of the

decentest chaps in the world? Why not, since we belonged to half a

dozen of the same clubs in New York and other cities? Why not, since

this very summer I had put my private yacht (named oddly enough, the

Belle Helène) in commission for the first season in three years, and

chartered her for the summer around Mackinaw, and a cruise down the

Mississippi to the Gulf that fall? Why not, since I had still unbanked

the handsome check Davidson had insisted on my taking as charter money

for the last quarter?




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