ious way I
should certainly give him a piece of my American mind. You might suppose
that a girl would be safe traveling with her brother."

"It isn't your fault, Dick," laughed the girl. "You know our parents dear
were with us when we first began to notice him--that was in Rome. And now
that we are alone he continues to follow our trail just the same. It's
really diverting; and if you were a good brother you'd find out all about
him, and we might even do stunts together--the three of us, with you as
the watchful chaperon. You forget how I have worked for you, Dick. I
took great chances in forcing an acquaintance with those frosty English
people at Florence just because you were crazy about the scrawny blonde
who wore the frightful hats. I wash my hands of you hereafter. Your taste
in girls is horrible."

"Your mind has been affected by reading these fake-kingdom romances,
where a ridiculous prince gives up home and mother and his country to
marry the usual beautiful American girl who travels about having silly
adventures. I belong to the Know-nothing Party--America for Americans and
only white men on guard!"

"Yes, Richard! Your sentiments are worthy, but they'd have more weight if
I hadn't seen you staring your eyes out every time we came within a mile
of a penny princess. I haven't forgotten your disgraceful conduct in
collecting photographs of that homely daughter of a certain English duke.
We'll call the incident closed, little brother."

"Our friend Chauvenet, even," continued Captain Claiborne, "is less
persistent--less gloomily present on the horizon. We haven't seen him for
a week or two. But he expects to visit Washington this spring. His
waistcoats are magnificent. The governor shies every time the fellow
unbuttons his coat."

"Mr. Chauvenet is an accomplished man of the world," declared Shirley
with an insincere sparkle in her eyes.

"He lives by his wits--and lives well."

Claiborne dismissed Chauvenet and turned again toward the strange young
man, who was still deep in his newspaper.

"He's reading the _Neue Freie Presse_," remarked Dick, "by which token I
argue that he's some sort of a Dutchman. He's probably a traveling agent
for a Vienna glass-factory, or a drummer for a cheap wine-house, or the
agent for a Munich brewery. That would account for his travels. We simply
fall in with his commercial itinerary."

"You seem to imply, brother, that my charms are not in themselves
sufficient. But a co