tiny."

"What can I do?" asked Kalora, seemingly impressed by the earnestness of
the consul's wife.

"Leave Morovenia. Keep at your father until he consents to your going.
Here you are despised and ridiculed--a victim of heathen prejudice left
over from the Dark Ages. Get away, even if you have to walk, and take my
word for it, the moment you leave Morovenia you will be a very beautiful
girl; not a merely attractive young person, but what we would call at
home a radiant beauty--the oriental type, you know. And as a personal
favor to me, don't be fat."

"No fear of that," said the girl with a melancholy attempt at a smile.
"But you must go and join the others. Do, please. I am now in disgrace,
and you may compromise your social standing in Morovenia if you remain
here and talk to me."

"I dare say I should go. I have a husband who requires as much attention
and scolding as a four-year-old. Sometimes I almost favor the oriental
system of the husband's directing the wife. Good-by."

"Good-by."

Mrs. Plumston gave her a kiss and a friendly little pat on the arm, and
walked away toward the stables with a swinging, heel-and-toe, masculine
stride.

Kalora had the whole garden to herself. She sat squared up in the wicker
chair with her fists clenched, looking straight ahead, trying in vain to
think of some plan for avenging herself upon the whole race of
bachelors. As she sat thus some one spoke to her.

"How do you do?" came a voice.

She was startled and looked about, but saw no one.

"Up here!" came the voice again.

She looked up and saw a young man on the top of the wall, his legs
hanging over. Evidently he had climbed up from the outside, and yet
Kalora had never suspected that the wall could be climbed.

[Illustration: "Up here!" came the voice again]

He was smoothly shaven, with blond hair almost ripe enough to be auburn;
he wore a gray suit of rather loose and careless material, a belt, but
no waistcoat; his trousers were reefed up from a pair of saddle-brown
shoes, and the silk band around his small straw hat was tricolored. In
his hand was a paper-covered book. Swung over his shoulder was a camera
in a leather case. He sat there on top of the high wall and gazed at
Kalora with a grinning interest, and she, forgetting that she was
unveiled and clad only in the simple garments which had horrified the
best people of Morovenia, gazed back at him, for he was the first of the
kind she had seen.

"What a