le faint from hunger,
for the Irish stew on the Dempsey table had been particularly weak
that day. Delicious odors from unknown dishes tantalized her. And
Flaherty began to bring to her table course after course of ambrosial
food that the gods might have pronounced excellent.

But even in the midst of her Lucullian repast Katy laid down her
knife and fork. Her heart sank as lead, and a tear fell upon her
filet mignon. Her haunting suspicions of the star lodger arose
again, fourfold. Thus courted and admired and smiled upon by that
fashionable and gracious assembly, what else could Mr. Brunelli be
but one of those dazzling titled patricians, glorious of name but shy
of rent money, concerning whom experience had made her wise? With a
sense of his ineligibility growing within her there was mingled a
torturing conviction that his personality was becoming more pleasing
to her day by day. And why had he left her to dine alone?

But here he was coming again, now coatless, his snowy shirt-sleeves
rolled high above his Jeffriesonian elbows, a white yachting cap
perched upon his jetty curls.

"'Tonio! 'Tonio!" shouted many, and "The spaghetti! The spaghetti!"
shouted the rest.

Never at 'Tonio's did a waiter dare to serve a dish of spaghetti
until 'Tonio came to test it, to prove the sauce and add the needful
dash of seasoning that gave it perfection.

From table to table moved 'Tonio, like a prince in his palace,
greeting his guests. White, jewelled hands signalled him from every
side.

A glass of wine with this one and that, smiles for all, a jest and
repartee for any that might challenge--truly few princes could be so
agreeable a host! And what artist could ask for further appreciation
of his handiwork? Katy did not know that the proudest consummation of
a New Yorker's ambition is to shake hands with a spaghetti chef or to
receive a nod from a Broadway head-waiter.

At last the company thinned, leaving but a few couples and quartettes
lingering over new wine and old stories. And then came Mr. Brunelli
to Katy's secluded table, and drew a chair close to hers.

Katy smiled at him dreamily. She was eating the last spoonful of a
raspberry roll with Burgundy sauce.

"You have seen!" said Mr. Brunelli, laying one hand upon his collar
bone. "I am Antonio Brunelli! Yes; I am the great 'Tonio! You have
not suspect that! I loave you, Katy, and you shall marry with me. Is
it not so? Call me 'Antonio,' and say that you will be