you?"

Courtney reddened.

"I don't think so," he answered; "I admire her very much, but I
haven't lost my heart ..."

"Naughty boy! Don't prevaricate!" and Lady Fulkeward smiled in the
bewitching pearly manner her admirably-made artificial teeth
allowed her to do. "Every man in the hotel is in love with the
Princess, and I'm sure I don't blame them. If I belonged to your
sex I should be in love with her too. As it is, I am in love with
the new arrival, that glorious creature, Gervase. He is superb! He
looks like an untamed savage. I adore handsome barbarians!"

"He's scarcely a barbarian, I think," said Courtney, with some
amusement; "he is the great French artist, the 'lion' of Paris
just now,--only secondary to Sarah Bernhardt."

"Artists are always barbarians," declared Lady Fulkeward
enthusiastically. "They paint naughty people without any clothes
on; they never have any idea of time; they never keep their
appointments; and they are always falling in love with the wrong
person and getting into trouble, which is so nice of them! That's
why I worship them all. They are so refreshingly unlike OUR set!"

Courtney raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

"You know what I mean by our set," went on the vivacious old
"Gainsborough," "the aristocrats whose conversation is limited to