dreams at night, and most of his waking hours, he had not heard its lilt
again.

Paul Verdayne smiled to himself to note the youngster's sudden interest
in society. He had not--strange as it may seem--been told a word of the
experience, but he was not curious. He certainly knew the world, if
anyone knew it, and though he was sure he recognized the symptoms, he
had too much tact to ask, "Who is the girl?"

"Let the Boy have his little secrets," he thought, remembering his own
callow days. "They will do him good."

And though the Boy felt an undue sense of guilt, he continued to keep
his lips closed and his eyes and ears open, though it often seemed so
utterly useless to do so. Sometimes he wondered if he had dropped to
sleep, there behind the hawthorn hedge that afternoon, and dreamed it
all.

Verdayne and the Boy were sitting at luncheon at the Savoy. Sir Charles
and Lady Henrietta had gone down to Verdayne Place for a week, and the
two men were spending most of their time away from the lonely house in
Berkeley Square.

That day they were discussing the Boy's matrimonial prospects as
proposed by the Grand Duke Peter--indeed, they were usually discussing
them. The Boy had written, signifying his acceptance and approval of the
arrangements as made. Nothing else was expected of him for the present,
but his nature had not ceased its revolt against the decree of Fate, and
Paul Verdayne shared his feeling of repugnance to the utmost. Perhaps
Verdayne felt it even more acutely than the young Prince himself, for he