d there stood,
poised, a Wondrous Vision; a spectacle of delight for gods and men, and
particularly for the Tyro, who then and there forgot Little Miss Grouch,
forgot Alderson, forgot his family, his home, his altars and his fires,
and particularly his manners, and, staring until his eyes protruded,
offered up an audible and fervent prayer to Neptune that the Clan
Macgregor might break down in mid-ocean and not get to port for six
months.

"Hello!" said Alderson. "Why this sudden passion for a life on the ocean
wave?"

"Did you see her?"

"See whom? Oh!" he added, in enlightenment, as the escort surged past
them. "That's it, is it, my impressionable young friend? Well, if you're
planning to enter those lists you won't be without competition."

The Tyro closed his eyes to recall that flashing vision of youth and
loveliness. He saw again the deliciously modeled face tinted to warmest
pink, a figure blent of curves and gracious contours, a mouth of
delicate mirth, and eyes, wide, eager, soft, and slanted quaintly at an
angle to madden the heart of man.

"Is there such an angel as the Angel of Laughter?" asked the Tyro.

"Not in any hierarchy that I know," replied Alderson.

"Then there ought to be. Do you know her?"

"Who? The Angel of--"

"Don't guy me, Dr. Alderson. This is serious."

"Oh, these sudden seizures are seldom fatal."

"Do you know her?" persisted the Tyro.

"No."

The Tyro sighed. Meantime there progressed the ceremony of enthroning
the queen in one of the most desirable chairs on the deck, while the
bodyguard fussed eagerly about, tucking in rugs, handing out candy,
flowers, and magazines, and generally making monkeys of itself. (I quote
the Tyro's regrettable characterization of these acts of simple
courtesy.)

"But I know some of her admirers," continued the other. "The lop-eared
youth on the right is young Sperry, son of the famous millionaire
philanthropist and tax-dodger, Diedrick Sperry. He'll be worth ten
millions one of these days."

"Slug!" said the Tyro viciously.

"That huge youngster at her feet is Journay, guard on last year's
Princeton team. He's another gilded youth."

"Unfledged cub," growled the Tyro.

"Very nice boy, on the contrary. The bristly-haired specimen who is
ostentatiously making a sketch of her is Castleton Flaunt, the
illustrator."

"_Poseur!_"

"The languid, brown man with the mustache is Lord Guenn, the
polo-player."

"Cheap sport!"

"You don'