ing, but not
now. We must be in the mood. This moment I am interested in nothing but
yourself. Sit down. What has happened to you in all these months?
Something not altogether pleasant. Have you had any adventures? Have you
been recognized?"

He had finished his chocolate, and he clasped his hands behind his head
and leaned back in his chair, giving the railing a slight kick.

"No," he said, grimly, "I have not been recognized. At first I avoided
all the big hotels, lest I might be; then growing more secure, and
disliking the inferior ones, I became quite reckless. The second time I
visited New York I went to the Waldorf-Astoria, and the third time to
the St. Regis. In the smoking-rooms of all the hotels and trains I
talked with any one whom I found disposed to conversation. Not that I
was; but I was perambulating the country for an object and determined to
accomplish it. As you had told me to improve my manners I did my best,
and have reason to believe that, if not effusive, I am almost cynically
approachable. In New York I was at times repelled with a haughty stare
or a negative frigidity which no duke I know could compass. But in
Boston they were more friendly, and farther West so expansive that I was
frequently invited to houses before I had presented my modest card. Very
often I had long talks with newspaper men, and made no attempt to
conceal the fact that I was a Britisher. Once or twice that fact was
commented on, but taken as a matter of course. There are a good many
Britishers in the United States. My identity was never suspected. I
never saw a newspaper paragraph about myself."

He laughed, but looked at her between lids so narrowed that she could
not see the expression of his eyes. She nodded, smiling; and she could
make her smile very sweet and encouraging.

"The time came when I felt like a shipwrecked mariner. Stranded!
Abandoned! Forgotten! Finally--take all the circumstances into
consideration and make due allowance--I felt that I would risk
everything to see my name in print once more. I arrived in Chicago late
one night. There had been a break-down that doubled the time of the
beastly trip. I went to its first hotel and registered myself as Elton
Gwynne. The night clerk, with the haughty indifference of the stage
duke, or the New-Yorker who fancies himself, called a bell-boy and
turned his back on me. I remained in Chicago three days. Not a reporter
sent up his card. Not a line appeared in a newsp