"May I have the honour," suggested the prince, "of waiting upon you
at noon to conduct you? And I need hardly say that we undertake the
journey under oath of secrecy?"

"Anything--anything!" cried Olivia.

"Oh, my dear Olivia," breathed Mrs. Hastings weakly, "taking me, at
my age, into this awful place of Four Dimentias--or whatever it was
you said."

"We will be ready to go with you at noon," said Olivia steadily.

St. George held his peace as they made their adieux. A great many
things remained to be thought out, but one was clear enough.

The boy servant ran before them to the door. They made their way to
the street in the early dusk. A hurdy-gurdy on the curb was bubbling
over with merry discords, and was flanked by garrulous Italians with
push-carts, lighted by flaring torches. Men were returning from
work, children were quarreling, women were in doorways, and a
policeman was gossiping with the footman in a knot of watching
idlers. With a sigh that was like a groan, Mrs. Hastings sank back
on the cushions of the brougham.

"I feel," she said, eyes closed, "as if I had been in a pagan temple
where they worship oracles and what's-his-names. What time is it? I
haven't an idea. Dear, dear, I want to get home and feel as if my
feet were on land and water again. I want some strong sleep and a
good sound cup of coffee, and then I shall know what's actually
what."

To St. George the slow drive up town was no less unreal than their
visit. His head was whirling, a hundred plans and speculations
filled his mind, and through these Mrs Hastings' chatter of
forebodings and the lawyer's patterned utterance hardly found their
way. At his own street he was set down, with Mrs. Hastings'
permission to call next day.

Miss Holland gave him her hand.

"I can not thank you," she said, "I can not thank you. But try to
know, won't you, what this has been to me. Until to-morrow."

Until to-morrow. St. George stood in the brightness of the street
looking after the vanishing carriage, his hand tingling from her
touch. Then he went up to his apartment and met Rollo--sleek,
deferential, the acme of the polite barbarism in which the prince
had made St. George feel that he and his world were living. Ah, he
thought, as Rollo took his hat, this was no way to live, with the
whole world singing to be discovered anew.

He sat down before the trim little white table with its pretty china
and silver and its one rose-shaded candle, but t