l, yes."

"My poor, sweet child," murmured her sister.

"What have I said that is so silly?" asked Bessie.

"You are a little too simple; just a little. It is very becoming, but it
pleases people at your expense."

"I am certainly too simple to understand you," said Bessie.

"Shall I tell you a story?" asked her sister.

"If you would be so good. That is what they do to amuse simple people."

Mrs. Westgate consulted her memory, while her companion sat gazing at
the shining sea. "Did you ever hear of the Duke of Green-Erin?"

"I think not," said Bessie.

"Well, it's no matter," her sister went on.

"It's a proof of my simplicity."

"My story is meant to illustrate that of some other people," said Mrs.
Westgate. "The Duke of Green-Erin is what they call in England a great
swell, and some five years ago he came to America. He spent most of his
time in New York, and in New York he spent his days and his nights at
the Butterworths'. You have heard, at least, of the Butterworths. BIEN.
They did everything in the world for him--they turned themselves inside
out. They gave him a dozen dinner parties and balls and were the means
of his being invited to fifty more. At first he used to come into Mrs.
Butterworth's box at the opera in a tweed traveling suit; but someone
stopped that. At any rate, he had a beautiful time, and they parted the
best friends in the world. Two years elapse, and the Butterworths come
abroad and go to London. The first thing they see in all the papers--in
England those things are in the most prominent place--is that the Duke
of Green-Erin has arrived in town for the Season. They wait a little,
and then Mr. Butterworth--as polite as ever--goes and leaves a card.
They wait a little more; the visit is not returned; they wait three
weeks--silence de mort--the Duke gives no sign. The Butterworths see
a lot of other people, put down the Duke of Green-Erin as a rude,
ungrateful man, and forget all about him. One fine day they go to Ascot
Races, and there they meet him face to face. He stares a moment and
then comes up to Mr. Butterworth, taking something from his
pocketbook--something which proves to be a banknote. 'I'm glad to see
you, Mr. Butterworth,' he says, 'so that I can pay you that ten pounds
I lost to you in New York. I saw the other day you remembered our bet;
here are the ten pounds, Mr. Butterworth. Goodbye, Mr. Butterworth.' And
off he goes, and that's the last they see of the Duke of Gr