a dozen of these
splendid creatures, loosely held together by trails of pink satin
ribbon, wide enough for a sash. I had never dreamed of such roses. I
almost expected them to speak.

"Miladi and the Lieutenant will meet at dinner," explained Louise. "It
is an American custom that the Messieurs send always flowers to the
ladies. Madame, and Mademoiselle Woodburn have received bouquets also,
but these roses for Miladi are the most beautiful. Is it Miladi's wish
that I untie the ribbon, and take out one or two for her to carry?"

I was on the point of saying "yes," because the flowers were so lovely,
and because it would please Mrs. Ess Kay; but on second thoughts, I
said "no," thanking Louise, and asking her to put the creatures' feet
in water. Perhaps it would be as well, I reminded myself, to see this
brother of Mrs. Ess Kay's (of whose existence I'd never heard) before I
went about armed with his roses. I had already tucked the white bud,
which had come to me on the dock like a dove with an olive branch, into
the low neck of my frilly white muslin frock, and I gave it no rivals.

"Has Madame gone down?" I asked; for it occurred to me that it would be
awkward to find myself alone for nearly half an hour with a strange
man.

"I think Madame will be in the hall," said Louise, and satisfied, I
descended in a stately way suited to the house, into the fountain
court. Nobody was there, however, except a young man in evening dress,
who jumped up from a chair, and set down a small glass out of which he
had been drinking.

"Allow me to introduce myself," said he. "I know you must be Lady Betty
Bulkeley. My name is Potter Parker."

I couldn't help wondering whether his friends called him "Pot," for
short, and the thought made me smile more than I would have smiled at a
stranger if it hadn't popped into my head. This seemed to encourage
him, which I regretted; because you can see at once by his face that he
isn't the kind who needs encouragement. It is something like Mrs. Ess
Kay's face, only younger, with her square chin, and bold blue eyes as
pale as hers. The likeness is all the stronger because Mr. Parker wears
no moustache or beard, and his dark hair, which falls in two straight,
thick blocks over his forehead, is parted in the middle. You would
know, if you saw him riding a white bear at the North Pole, that he was
an American young man. Why, or how, I'm not experienced enough in
Americans to tell, but I'm beginning