villa, where the mimosa blazed, and another where at present there were
a number of utterly useless violets. A certain practical element was
apt, perhaps, to color Mr. Scobell's half-hours with nature.

The sight of the steamboat leaving the harbor on its journey to
Marseilles gave him another idea. Now that Mervo was a going concern, a
real live proposition, it was high time that it should have an adequate
service of boats. The present system of one a day was absurd. He made a
note to look into the matter. These people wanted waking up.

Arriving at the Palace, he was informed that His Highness had gone out
shortly after breakfast, and had not returned. The majordomo gave the
information with a tinkle of disapproval in his voice. Before taking up
his duties at Mervo, he had held a similar position in the household of
a German prince, where rigid ceremonial obtained, and John's cheerful
disregard of the formalities frankly shocked him. To take the present
case for instance: When His Highness of Swartzheim had felt inclined to
enjoy the air of a morning, it had been a domestic event full of stir
and pomp. He had not merely crammed a soft hat over his eyes and
strolled out with his hands in his pockets, but without a word to his
household staff as to where he was going or when he might be expected
to return.

Mr. Scobell received the news equably, and directed his chauffeur to
return to the villa. He could not have done better, for, on his
arrival, he was met with the information that His Highness had called
to see him shortly after he had left, and was now waiting in the
morning-room.

The sound of footsteps came to Mr. Scobell's ears as he approached the