life would be. Sometimes they meant it sincerely; sometimes they
were gentlemanly adventurers of title, from whom it was a
business proposition, and in either case she turned restlessly
away and asked herself how long it would be before the man would
come who would pick her up on his saddle and gallop off with her,
with his arm around her waist and his horse's hoofs clattering
beneath them, and echoing the tumult in their hearts.

She had known too many great people in the world to feel
impressed with her own position at home in America; but she
sometimes compared herself to the Queen in ``In a Balcony,''
and repeated to herself, with mock seriousness:--

``And you the marble statue all the time
They praise and point at as preferred to life,
Yet leave for the first breathing woman's cheek,
First dancer's, gypsy's or street balladine's!''

And if it were true, she asked herself, that the man she had
imagined was only an ideal and an illusion, was not King the best
of the others, the unideal and ever-present others? Every one
else seemed to think so. The society they knew put them
constantly together and approved. Her people approved. Her own
mind approved, and as her heart was not apparently ever to be
considered, who could say that it did not approve as well? He
was certainly a very charming fellow, a manly, clever companion,
and one who bore about him the evidences of distinction and
thorough breeding. As far as family went, the Kings were as old
as a young country could expect, and Reggie King was, moreover,
in spite of his wealth, a man of action and ability. His yacht