gray eyes they were, stirred to their depths now by
amusement. She smiled at Senorita Rodriguez, in token of recognition.

"Aren't they wonderful?" asked Senorita Rodriguez with the quick,
bubbling enthusiasm of her race.

"What?" asked Mr. Grimm.

"Her eyes," was the reply. "Every person has one dominant feature--with
Miss Thorne it is her eyes."

"Miss Thorne?" Mr. Grimm repeated.

"Haven't you met her?" the senorita went on. "Miss Isabel Thorne? She
only arrived a few days ago--the night of the state ball. She's my
guest at the legation. When an opportunity comes I shall present you to
her."

She ran on, about other things, with only an occasional remark from Mr.
Grimm, who was thoughtfully nursing his knee. Somewhere through the
chatter and effervescent gaiety, mingling with the sound of the pulsing
music, he had a singular impression of a rhythmical beat, an indistinct
tattoo, noticeable, perhaps, only because of its monotony. After a
moment he shot a quick glance at Miss Thorne and understood; it was the
tapping of an exquisitely wrought ivory fan against one of her tapering,
gloved fingers. She was talking and smiling.

"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot!" said the fan.

Mr. Grimm twisted around in his seat and regaled his listless eyes with
a long stare into the senorita's pretty face. Behind the careless ease
of repose he was mechanically isolating the faint clatter of the fan.

"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot!"

"Did any one ever accuse you of staring, Mr. Grimm?" demanded the
senorita banteringly.

For an instant Mr. Grimm continued to stare, and then his listless eyes
swept the ball-room, pausing involuntarily at the scarlet splendor of
the minister from Turkey.

"I beg your pardon," he apologized contritely. There was a pause. "The
minister from Turkey looks like a barn on fire, doesn't he?"

Senorita Rodriguez laughed, and Mr. Grimm glanced idly toward Miss
Thorne. She was still talking, her face alive with interest; and the fan
was still tapping rhythmically, steadily, now on the arm of her chair.

"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot!"

"Pretty women who don't want to be stared at should go with their faces
swathed," Mr. Grimm suggested indolently. "Haroun el Raschid there would
agree with me on that point, I have no doubt. What a shock he would get
if he should happen up at Atlantic City for a week-end in August!"

"Dot-dash-dot! Dot-dash-dot! Dot-d