Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Smith.' There are even reasons why
I'm pleased that you've made me a present of the name. I thank you for
it--and for all the rest."

"Oh, but if it isn't _really_ your name, we sha'n't be legally married,
shall we?" Annesley protested.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "I hadn't thought of that. It's a difficulty.
But we'll obviate it--somehow. Don't worry! Only I'm afraid we can't ask
your friend the Archdeacon to marry us, as I meant to suggest, because I
was sure you'd like it."

"I should. But it doesn't matter," said the girl. "Besides, I feel that
to-morrow I shall find I've dreamed--all this."

"Then I've dreamed you, at the same time, and I'm not going to let you
slip out of my dream, now I've got you in it. I intend to go on dreaming
you for the rest of my life. And I shall take care _you_ don't wake up!"

Afterward there came a time when Annesley called back those words and
wondered if they had held a deeper meaning than she guessed. But, having
uttered them, he seemed to put the thought out of his mind, and turn to
the next.

"About the Savoy," he went on. "I want to take you there, because I
know a woman staying in the hotel--a woman old enough to be your
mother--who'll look after you, to please me, till we're married.
Afterward you'll be nice to her, and that will be doing her a good
turn, because she's apt to be lonesome in London. She's the widow of
a Spanish Count, and has lived in the Argentine, but I met her in New
York. She knows all about me--or enough--and if she'd been in the
restaurant at dinner this evening she could have done for me what you
did. I had reason to think she would be there when I bolted in to get
out of a fix. But she was missing. Are you sorry?"

"If she'd been there, you would have gone to her table and sat down, and
we--should never have met!" Annesley thought aloud. "How strange! Just
that _little_ thing--your friend being out to dinner--and our whole lives
are to be changed. Oh, _you_ must be sorry?"

"I tell you, meeting you and winning you in this way is worth the best
ten years of my life. But you haven't answered my question."

"I'll answer it now!" cried the girl. "Meeting you is worth _all_ the
years of my life! I'm not much of a princess, but you _are_ St. George."

"St. George!" he echoed, a ring of bitterness under his laugh. "That's
the first time I've been called a saint, and I'm afraid it will be the
last. I can't live up to that, but--if I