But, as always, nothing so romantic occurred; the dog was
discovered, and the Mohammedans, with a hurried politeness, made
their salaams. Instead, a man with a quizzical scrutiny through
glasses that made him resemble an owl, stopped before her.

"'Here we go 'round the mulberry-bush,'" he chanted. "Hello, Kate
Greenaway. Have you had a drink?"

"Yes, thank you," she replied sedately.

"Certified milk?"

"It was something with gin," she particularized, "and too sweet." He
took the place beside her and solemnly recited a great many nursery
rhymes. On the whole she liked him, deciding that he was very
wicked. Soon he was holding her hand in both of his. "I know you're
not real," he proceeded. "Verlaine wrote you--_'Les Ingenus':_

"'From which the sudden gleam of whiteness shed
Met in our eyes a frolic welcoming.'

"What if I'd kiss you?"

"Nothing," she returned coldly.

"You're remarkable!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "If you are not
already one of the celebrated beauties you're about to be. As cool
as a fish! Look--Pleydon is going to rise and spill little Russia.
Have you heard her sing Scriabine?" Linda ignored him in a sharp