brother to the ox (a well-bred, well-dressed, bath-loving little
brother, of course) than a member of an imperial family. Not that he
didn't have his points: he had nice hands and nice feet, and his
smile was charming.

You should have seen his face light up when he found I spoke French.
The poor fellow wasn't a bit at home in the English language and the
eagerness with which he plunged into French was really pathetic.
Luckily, Blakely spoke French, too--not very well, but he understood
it lots better than he spoke it--so we three spent a pleasant hour
together on the veranda. Of course, in a way, it was a little
triumph for me; the women whom Blakely's mother had snubbed enjoyed
the sight immensely, and when she appeared, accompanied by Mrs.
Sanderson-Spear and some of the "Choicest Flowers," and saw what was
happening to her duke, she was too angry for words. Heavens, how
that woman did hate me that afternoon!

The next morning six more "Choicest Flowers" arrived from San
Francisco (rare orchids whose grandfathers had come over from
Ireland in the steerage). The third son of an English baronet who
owned a chicken-ranch near Los Angeles and a German count who sold
Rhine wines to the best families also appeared; for that night
Blakely's mother was to give such a dinner as had never before been
given in Santa Barbara.

Under the heading:

SANTA BARBARA NOW THE MOST COSMOPOLITAN CITY IN AMERICA

an enterprising Los Angeles newspaper devoted a whole page to the