twenty-two this state of affairs is not unique.

So far as Alice was concerned Russell might have worn a placard,
"Engaged." She looked upon him as diners entering a restaurant
look upon tables marked "Reserved": the glance, slightly
discontented, passes on at once. Or so the eye of a prospector
wanders querulously over staked and established claims on the
mountainside, and seeks the virgin land beyond; unless, indeed,
the prospector be dishonest. But Alice was no claim-jumper--so
long as the notice of ownership was plainly posted.

Though she was indifferent now, habit ruled her: and, at the very
time she wondered why she created fictitious cigars for her
father, she was also regretting that she had not boldly carried
her Malacca stick down-town with her. Her vivacity increased
automatically.

"Perhaps the clerk thought you wanted the cigars for yourself,"
Russell suggested. "He may have taken you for a Spanish
countess."

"I'm sure he did!" Alice agreed, gaily; and she hummed a bar or
two of "La Paloma," snapping her fingers as castanets, and swaying
her body a little, to suggest the accepted stencil of a "Spanish
Dancer." "Would you have taken me for one, Mr. Russell?" she
asked, as she concluded the impersonation.

"I? Why, yes," he said. "I'D take you for anything you wanted
me to."