g
America for the first time and she was learning rapidly. "Cecil's a
good sort, you know, even--" but she was loyal enough to send her
thoughts into other channels.

Nightfall brought half a dozen guests to Bazelhurst Villa. They were
fashionable to the point where ennui is the chief characteristic, and
they came only for bridge and sleep. There was a duke among them and
also a French count, besides the bored New Yorkers; they wanted brandy
and soda as soon as they got into the house, and they went to bed
early because it was so much easier to sleep lying down than sitting
up.

All were up by noon next day, more bored than ever, fondly praying
that nothing might happen before bedtime. The duke was making
desultory love to Mrs. De Peyton and Mrs. De Peyton was leading him
aimlessly toward the shadier and more secluded nooks in the park
surrounding the Villa. Penelope, fresh and full of the purpose of
life, was off alone for a long stroll. By this means she avoided the
attentions of the duke, who wanted to marry her; those of the count
who also said he wanted to marry her but couldn't because his wife
would not consent; those of one New Yorker, who liked her because she
was English; and the pallid chatter of the women who bored her with
their conjugal cynicisms.

"What the deuce is this coming down the road?" queried the duke,
returning from the secluded nook at luncheon time.

"Some one has been hurt," exclaimed his companion. Others were looking
down the leafy road from the gallery.

"By Jove, it's Penelope, don't you know," ejaculated the duke,
dropping his monocle and blinking his eye as if to rest it for the
time being.

"But she's not hurt. She's helping to support one of those men."

"Hey!" shouted his lordship from the gallery, as Penelope and two
dilapidated male companions abruptly started to cut across the park
in the direction of the stables. "What's up?" Penelope waved her hand
aimlessly, but did not change her course. Whereupon the entire house
party sallied forth in more or less trepidation to intercept the
strange party.

"Who are these men?" demanded Lady Bazelhurst, as they came up to the
fast-breathing young Englishwoman.

"Don't bother me, please. We must get him to bed at once. He'll have
pneumonia," replied Penelope.

Both men were dripping wet and the one in the middle limped painfully,
probably because both eyes were swollen tight and his nose was
bleeding. Penelope's face was beami