d kept saying.
"What a poetic game chess is, Mr. Frothingham, don't you think?
That's what I always said to poor dear Mr. Hastings--at least,
that's what he always said to me: 'Most games are so _needless_, but
chess is really up and down poetic'"

Mr. Frothingham made all ready to speak and then gave it up in
silence.

"Um," he had responded liberally.

"I'm sure," Mrs. Hastings had continued plaintively, "neither he nor
I ever thought that I would be playing chess up on top of a volcano
in the middle of the ocean. It's this awful feeling," Mrs. Hastings
had cried querulously, "of being neither on earth nor under the
water nor in Heaven that I object to. And nobody can get to us."

"That's just it, Mrs. Hastings," Antoinette had observed earnestly
at this juncture.

"Um," said Mr. Frothingham, then, "not at all, not at all. We have
all the advantages of the grave and none of its discomforts."

Whereupon Antoinette, rising suddenly, had slipped out of the white
marble room altogether and had found the knight smoking in
loneliness on the very veranda.

Amory put his cap under his arm and bowed.

"I hope," he said, "that I haven't frightened you."

He was an American! Antoinette's little heart leaped.

"I am having to wait here for a bit," explained Amory, not without
vagueness.

Miss Frothingham advanced to the veranda rail and contrived a shy
scrutiny of the intruder.

"No," she said, "you didn't frighten me in the least, of course.
But--do you usually do your waiting at this altitude?"

"Ah, no," answered Amory with engaging candour, "I don't. But
I--happened up this way." Amory paused a little desperately. In that
soft light he could not tell positively whether this was Miss
Holland or that other figure of silver and rose which he had seen in
the throne room. The blue gown was not interpretative. If she was
Miss Holland it would be very shabby of him to herald the surprise.
Naturally, St. George would appreciate doing that himself. "I'm
looking about a bit," he neatly temporized.

Antoinette suddenly looked away over the terrace as her eyes met
his, smiling behind their pince-nez. Amory was good to look at, and
he had never been more so than as he towered above her on the steps
of the king's palace. Who was he--but who was he? Antoinette
wondered rapidly. Had a warship arrived? Was Yaque taken? Or
had--she turned eyes, round with sudden fear, upon Amory.

"Did Prince Tabnit send you?" she demanded