n, and he never stops to think what color they
are--nor _care!_"

And then he pulled himself up sharply, and declared himself a madman
for raving on the street in broad daylight over the mere accidental
meeting with a pair of pretty eyes. He--the uncrowned king of a
to-be-glorious throne! He--the affianced husband of the Princess Elodie
of--Hell! He refused to think of it! And again the horse he rode and the
Park trees heard a bit of Paul Zalenska's English profanity that should
have made them hide in shame over the depravity of youth.

But the strangest thing of all was that the Boy, for the nonce, was not
thinking of--nor listening for--the voice!

He turned as he reached the end of the Row and rode slowly back. But the
horses and groom had already gone from the gate. And inwardly cursing
his slowness, he started on a trot for Berkeley Square.

He was not very far from the Verdayne house, when, turning a sudden
corner, he came upon the girl again, riding at a leisurely pace in the
opposite direction. Startled by his unexpected appearance, she glanced
back over her shoulder as she passed, surprising him--and perhaps
herself, too, for girls do that sometimes--by a ringing and tantalizing
laugh!

That laugh! Wonder upon wonders, it was _the voice_!

It was she--Opal!

He wheeled his horse sharply, but swift as he was, she was yet swifter
and was far down the street before he was fairly started in pursuit. His
one desire of the moment was to catch and conquer the sprite that
tempted him.

Her veil fluttered out behind her on the breeze, like a signal of
no-surrender, and once--only once--she looked back over her shoulder.
She was too far ahead for him to catch the glint of her eye, but he
heard the echo of that laugh--that voice--and it spurred him on and on.

Suddenly, by some turn known only to herself, she eluded him and escaped
beyond his vision--and beyond his reach. He halted his panting horse at
the crossing of several streets, and swore again. But though he looked
searchingly in every possible direction, there was no trace of the
fugitive to be seen. It was as though the earth had opened and
swallowed horse and rider in one greedy gulp.

Baffled and more disappointed than he cared to own, Paul rode slowly
back to Berkeley Square, his heart bounding with the excitement of the
chase and yet thoroughly vexed over his failure, at himself, his horse,
the girl.

At the house he found letters from the Regen