forted him with tea and hot muffins. The frank charm of his
girl-hostess captivated Aristide and drove from his mind the riddle of
his adventure. Besides, think of the Arabian Nights' enchantment of the
change from his lonely and shabby bed-sitting-room in the Rusholme Road
to this fragrant palace with princess and all to keep him company! He
watched the firelight dancing through her hair, the dainty play of
laughter over her face, and decided that the brougham had transported
him to Bagdad instead of Hampstead.

"You have the air of a veritable princess," said he.

"I once met a princess--at a charity bazaar--and she was a most
matter-of-fact, businesslike person."

"Bah!" said Aristide. "A princess of a charity bazaar! I was talking of
the princess in a fairytale. They are the only real ones."

"Do you know," said Miss Christabel, "that when men pay such compliments
to English girls they are apt to get laughed at?"

"Englishmen, yes," replied Aristide, "because they think over a
compliment for a week, so that by the time they pay it, it is addled,
like a bad egg. But we of Provence pay tribute to beauty straight out of
our hearts. It is true. It is sincere. And what comes out of the heart
is not ridiculous."

Again the girl coloured and laughed. "I've always heard that a Frenchman
makes love to every woman he meets."

"Naturally," said Aristide. "If they are pretty. What else are pretty
women for? Otherwise they might as well be hideous."

"Oh!" said the girl, to whom this Provencal point of view had not
occurred.

"So, if I make love to you, it is but your due."

"I wonder what my fiance would say if he heard you?"

"Your----?"

"My fiance! There's his photograph on the table beside you. He is six
foot one, and so jealous!" she laughed again.

"The Turk!" cried Aristide, his swiftly-conceived romance crumbling into
dust. Then he brightened up. "But when this six feet of muscle and
egotism is absent, surely other poor mortals can glean a smile?"

"You will observe that I'm not frowning," said Miss Christabel. "But you
must not call my fiance a Turk, for he's a very charming fellow whom I
hope you'll like very much."

Aristide sighed. "And the name of this thrice-blessed mortal?"

Miss Christabel told his name--one Harry Ralston--and not only his name,
but, such was the peculiar, childlike charm of Aristide Pujol, also many
other things about him. He was the Honourable Harry Ralston, the heir
to a g