prince. This youth's smile at us over his weeping daughter's hat
was pagan--the joyous, carefree smile of Pan.

He patted the girl's back. "Awfully sorry I couldn't meet you," he said,
in a gay and charming voice, which contradicted a statement that he
could be sorry about anything: the sort of voice which you know means a
light singing tenor. "I've been busy," he went on, explaining himself
to us as much as to Pat, "busy winning back the family fortunes."

Pat drew herself from him to look him in the face, and beam through a
few tears. "You darling!" she gasped. "I might have known it! You _have_
won them back?"

"I've made a start," he modestly replied. "I'll tell you all about it.
Jove! You've grown up a dashed pretty girl. We shan't make a bad-looking
pair trotting around together--what? But introduce me to your friends."

Patsey did so. When the young god Pan had met us halfway and was warmly
shaking hands, one saw that he wasn't quite such an ambrosial youth as
he had seemed at a distance. Instead of looking twenty, he appeared at
the outside twenty-eight, wavy bronze-brown hair; big, wide-open eyes of
yellow-brown like cigarette tobacco; low, straight brows and lashes of
the same light shade; a clever, impudent nose and a wide, laughing
mouth; a pointed, prominent chin with a cleft in it. Now, can you
imagine this as the description of a nineteen-year-old girl's recreant
parent, a ruined bankrupt returning to a house deserted by his unpaid
servants?

After his failure to meet Pat, leaving her to arrive alone and
friendless (so far as he could know), with huge duties to pay and
nothing to pay them with, I'd been prepared to loathe Larry. But to
loathe Pan would be a physical impossibility for any one who loves the
brightness of Nature. I fell a victim to the creature's charm at first
glance, and I think even Jack more or less melted at the second or
third.

Larry had come in hat in hand, and had burst upon us as such a surprise
that we didn't notice his costume till after we'd calmed down. When Pat
had pranced round him a little in a kind of votive dance, his eyes fell
upon our luncheon, and he said in French that he had the hunger of
seventy-seven wolves. He then approached the table to examine the food
with interest, and put down his hat. It dawned upon me only at this
instant that the hat was a shiny "topper"; and as he unbuttoned a smart
black overcoat and threw back a white silk muffler, lo! he was reve