suggestion. Seizing the excuse that a young girl could not go unaccompanied, her father, for the first time in his recollection, asserted his authority, emphatically refused consent, and was obdurate to all coaxing. Then Grace played her trump card. Their friend Mrs. Stuart was going on the same steamer. With a married woman for a chaperon, what further objection could there be? Seeing that he was check-mated, and that his daughter, as usual, would have her way in the end anyhow, Mr. Harmon reluctantly capitulated.

He was down at the steamer to see her off, a tall, distinguished-looking, silvery-haired old gentleman, conspicuous in the group of friends who had come to bid his daughter bon voyage. It was a noisy, jolly, unruly crowd. Every one talked at the same time, pushing and elbowing, blocking the gangway up which rushed each minute fresh arrivals laden with rugs and handbags. Ten minutes more and the "All ashore" gong would sound, and then the big ship would slowly pull out and point her nose for the open sea. Grace stood in the center of the fashionably dressed throng, herself stylishly attired in a chic, long gray cloth directoire coat and picture hat, bestowing smiles and handshakes right and left like a queen holding court. Everybody was in high spirits, all except Mr. Harmon, who tried to look brave as he furtively wiped away a tear.

"Don't do that, dad, or I'll spoil my complexion," whispered Grace, making heroic efforts to swallow a hard lump that arose in her own throat. "One would think I were going away forever. I'll be back safe and sound before you imagine—you'll see!"

"I hope so, child, I hope so," murmured the old man, clasping her to his breast. "It's foolish of me, of course. All the same, I can't help wishing you weren't going. I have a sort of presentiment that something will happen."

Grace laughed merrily.

"Nonsense, dad! What can happen? Nothing ever happens on ocean voyages. They are awfully tame and exasperatingly free from incident. Shipwrecks and things like that occur only in novels. Sometimes I wish things would happen."

"Really, Grace!" protested a feminine voice at her side, "I do wish you wouldn't say such wicked things. You know how nervous I am."

The speaker was Mrs. Wesley Stuart, under whose protective wing Grace was traveling. She was a willowy and rather attractive blonde, not yet in the thirties, but with a complexion somewhat the worse for rich foods, old wines, and late hours. Showily dressed, with a large black felt mushroom hat and heavy pearl pendants in her ears, she talked with affected languor and used a gold lorgnon.

"Your father is quite right, dear," she went on. "There are all sorts of perils at sea. A hundred things might happen. Our machinery might break down, we might drift for weeks without being sighted, we might collide with an iceberg in the fog, we might even turn turtle. Don't you remember that awful affair of the City of Berlin? Of course you don't. It was before your time—before mine, too, for that matter. The steamer left Liverpool about thirty years ago, crowded with passengers. She never reached port, and has never been heard of from that day to this. Every vestige of her was wiped out. They never picked up a life-boat, or even so much as a steamer-chair. The theory was that she turned turtle and went right down."

"No—really—you don't say so!" exclaimed behind them a man's voice with the exaggerated Piccadilly intonation some Englishmen affect. "It's a jolly shame, don'tcher know—to frighten Miss Harmon like that. She'll believe every bally thing you tell her and get the blue spiders and all that sort of thing—eh, what?"

Grace turned, smiling, to greet the Honorable Percy Fitzhugh, who was hemmed in the crowd at their elbows. He had just come aboard with a green Tyrolian hat on the side of his head, a monocle in his eye, and a bull-terrier tucked under his arm. Close behind was his valet, carrying a wonderful collection of walking-sticks and a huge bouquet of flowers.

"Oh, I don't mind!" laughed Grace. "I'm a fine sailor and not a bit nervous. The sea has no terrors for me."

"I wish I could say as much," sighed Mrs. Stuart. Petulantly she added: "I never feel safe on the ocean. I don't mind storms, but I'm terribly afraid of fog and icebergs and fire. Whenever it's foggy I can't eat or sleep. I'm in a state of mental anguish until it clears again."

"It's a jolly good thing some of us have nerve—eh, what?" exclaimed Mr. Fitzhugh, with a wink at Grace. Addressing Mrs. Stuart, he went on: "You remind me of Rex, my terrier here. He loathes the sea—howls and whines dismally the whole time. But please don't get the blue spiders, that's a good girl. We're going to be an awfully jolly party. Don't spoil the fun. Try a champagne cocktail. Best antidote for nervousness in the world. If one don't work, take two. You'll feel bully." Turning to his man, he added: "Thompson, take those flowers to my stateroom, and go and see about my 'tub' and steamer-chair."

The next moment the Englishman and his green thatch were swallowed up in the crush of new arrivals.

"Did you ever see such a coarse, selfish creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart indignantly. "The impudence of his comparing me to his miserable dog!"

"Who are the flowers for?" laughed Grace.

"Mrs. Phelps, of course. He's head over heels in debt. He needs her money. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't catch on. She's very ambitious—the title attracts her. There she comes now."

A stylish, handsome woman, richly dressed all in black, with large Gainsborough hat to match, came leisurely up the gangplank, followed by a smart footman weighed down with packages. She nodded cordially to Grace and Mrs. Stuart as she caught sight of them, and disappeared in the direction of the staterooms.

"She's literally bursting with money," whispered Mrs. Stuart, who knew everybody's business. "Her husband left her ten millions. He was a simple soul—a plain, matter-of-fact business man. All he thought of was making money. She never cared for him. It's just as well he died. She can marry again now and live the life she likes best. All the men are after her. Some think Count von Hatzfeld has the best chance. Of course you know he's on the ship. You see, it's all cut and dried."

"I don't blame her," said Grace cynically, as she returned the bow of another arrival. "It must be dreadful to be a mere 'Mrs. Green' or 'Mrs. Brown.' I couldn't live with any ordinary man—a mere business man whose one thought was figures and profits. My ideal is an English peer or an Italian count—preferably the latter. They are less expensive. English dukes, they say, drink hard and beat their wives. It would be nice to be addressed as 'Duchess,' or 'Comtesse.'"

Mrs. Stuart looked approvingly at her protégée.

"I'm glad to see you're so practical, my dear."

"Why not? This is a practical age," laughed Grace.

"Well, there's Prince Sergius. He's only waiting the word. Why don't you marry him and be a princess—only two lives removed from a throne? Every woman in America would envy you."

Grace frowned.

"And I—would despise myself?" she answered. "Every one knows his reputation. It's my money he wants, that's all. I haven't yet sunk so low as to purchase a titled husband at the price of my self-respect. Besides, I could not endure a tie that would be entirely loveless, wholly mercenary. I hope I have some ideals; some sentiment left."

"Were you ever in love?" persisted her companion.

"I suppose I was, like most girls. When I