her pursuer or pursued having been
received, considerable uneasiness was manifested in court and suffragette
circles, and it was freely rumoured that Lady Guernsey had made a rather
rash but thoroughly characteristic vow that she would never relinquish
the trail until she had forced Lord Marque to eat his own words, written
in frosting upon a plum cake of her own manufacture.

Marque may have heard of this vow, and perhaps entertained lively doubts
concerning Lady Diana's abilities as a pastry cook. At any rate, he kept
straight on westward in a series of kangaroo-like leaps until darkness
mercifully blotted out the picture.

Remaining in hiding under a hedge long enough to realise that London was
extremely unsafe for him, he decided to continue west as far as the
United States, consoling himself with the certainty that his creditors
would have forced his emigration anyway before very long, and that he
might as well take the present opportunity to pick out his dollar
princess while in exile.

But circumstances altered his views; the great popular feminine upheaval
in America was now in full swing; the eugenic principle had been
declared; all human infirmity and degenerate imperfections were to be
abolished through marriages based no longer upon sentiment and personal
inclination, but upon the scientific selection of mates for the purpose
of establishing the ideally flawless human race.

This was a pretty bad business for Lord Marque. The day after his arrival
he was a witness of the suffragette riots when the Mayor, the Governor,
and every symmetrical city, county, and State official was captured and
led blushing to the marriage license bureau. He had seen the terrible
panic in Long Acre, where thousands of handsome young men were being
chased in every direction by beautiful and swift-footed suffragettes.
From his window in the Hotel Astor he had gazed with horror upon this
bachelors' St. Bartholomew, and, distracted, had retired under his bed
for the balance of the evening, almost losing consciousness when a
bell-hop knocked at his door with a supply of towels.

Only one thought comforted him; the ocean rolled majestically between the
Lady Diana, her pastry, and the last of the house of Marque.

Never should that terrible and athletic young woman discover his
whereabouts if he had to remain away from London forever; never, never
would he eat that pastry!

As he lay under his bed, stroking his short moustache and