"No-o-o-o. Because he's the nearest. He followed me down. You can
see his name in all its luster on the Hotel Kast register, when
you get back to the city--Preston Fairfax Fitzhugh Carroll, at
your service."

"Sounds Southern," commented the man below.

"Southern! He's more Southern than the South Pole. His ancestors
fought all the wars and owned all the negroes--he calls them
'niggers'--and married into all the first families of Virginia,
and all that sort of thing. He must quite hate himself, poor Fitz,
for falling in love with a little Yankee like me. In fact, that's
why I made him do it."

"And now you wish he hadn't?"

"Oh--well--I don't know. He's awfully good-looking and gallant and
devoted and all that. Only he's such a prickly sort of person. I'd
have to spend the rest of my life keeping him and his pride out of
trouble. And I've no taste for diplomacy. Why, only last week he
declined to dine with the President of the Republic because some
one said that his excellency had a touch of the tar brush."

"He'd better get out of this country before that gets back to
headquarters."

"If he thought there was danger, he'd stay forever. I don't
suppose Fitz is afraid of anything on earth. Except perhaps of
me," she added after-thoughtfully.