Balderstone, I’ll let them fight it out for that dark-eyed little woman from Chicago I saw on board, and when the best man wins I’ll put the whole thing into a short story.”

Then began a new quest for characters to go with Marguerite Andrews.

“She must have a chaperon, to begin with,” thought Harley.  “That is indispensable.  Herring, Beemer, & Chadwick regard themselves as conservators of public morals, in their ‘Blue and Silver Series,’ so a girl unmarried and without a chaperon would never do for this book.  If they were to publish it in their ‘Yellow Prism Series’ I could fling all such considerations to the winds, for there they cater to stronger palates, palates cultivated by French literary cooks, and morals need not be considered, provided the story is well told and likely to sell; but this is for the other series, and a chaperon is a sine qua non.  Marguerite doesn’t need one half as much as the girls in the ‘Yellow Prism’ books, but she’s got to have one just the same, or the American girl will not read about her: and who is better than Dorothy Willard, who has charge of her now?”

Harley slapped his knee with delight.

“How fortunate I’d provided her!” he said.  “I’ve got my start already, and without having to think very hard over it either.”

The trance began again, and lasted several hours, during which time Kelly and the Professor stole softly into Harley’s rooms, and, perceiving his condition, respected it.

“He’s either asleep or imagining,” said the Professor, in a whisper.

“He can’t imagine,” returned the Doctor.  “Call it—realizing.  Whatever it is he’s up to, we mustn’t interfere.  There isn’t any use waking him anyhow.  I know where he keeps his cigars.  Let’s sit down and have a smoke.”

This the intruders did, hoping that sooner or later their host would observe their presence; but Harley lay in blissful unconsciousness of their coming, and they finally grew weary of waiting.

“He must be at work on a ten-volume novel,” said the Doctor.  “Let’s go.”

And with that they departed.  Night came on, and with it darkness, but Harley never moved.  The fact was he was going through an examination of the human race to find a man good enough for Marguerite Andrews, and it speaks volumes for the interest she had suddenly inspired in his breast that it took him so long to find what he wanted.

Along about nine o’clock he gave a deep sigh and returned to earth.

“I guess I’ve got him,” he said, wearily, rubbing his forehead, which began to ache a trifle.  “I’ll model him after the Professor.  He’s a good fellow, moderately good-looking, has position, and certainly knows something, as professors go.  I doubt if he is imposing enough for the American girl generally, but he’s the best I can get in the time at my disposal.”

So the Professor was unconsciously slated for the office of hero; Mrs. Willard was cast for chaperon, and the Doctor, in spite of Harley’s previous resolve not to use him, was to be introduced for the comedy element.  The villain selected was the usual poverty-stricken foreigner with a title and a passion for wealth, which a closer study of his heroine showed Harley that Miss Andrews possessed; for on her way home from the pier she took Mrs. Willard to the Amsterdam and treated her to a luncheon which nothing short of a ten-dollar bill would pay for, after which the two went shopping, replenishing Miss Andrews’s wardrobe—most of which lay snugly stored in the hold of the New York, and momentarily getting farther and farther away from its fair owner—in the course of which tour Miss Andrews expended a sum which, had Harley possessed it, would have made it unnecessary for him to write the book he had in mind at all.

“It’s good she’s rich,” sighed Harley.  “That will make it all the easier to have her go to Newport and attract the Count.”

At the moment that Harley spoke these words to himself Mrs. Willard and Marguerite, accompanied by Mr. Willard, entered the mansion of the latter on Fifth Avenue.  They had spent the afternoon and evening at the Andrews apartment, arranging for its closing until the return of Mrs. Corwin.  Marguerite meanwhile was to be the guest of the Willards.

“Next week we’ll run up to Newport,” said Dorothy.  “The house is ready, and Bob is going for his cruise.”

Marguerite looked at her curiously for a moment.

“Did you intend to go there all along?” she asked.

“Yes—of course.  Why do you ask?” returned Mrs. Willard.

“Why, that very idea came into my mind at the moment,” replied Marguerite.  “I thought this afternoon I’d run up to Riverdale and stay with the Hallidays next week, when all of a sudden Newport came into my mind, and it has been struggling there with Riverdale for two hours—until I almost began to believe somebody was trying to compel me to go to Newport.  If it is your idea, and has been all along, I’ll go; but if Stuart Harley is trying to get me down there for literary purposes, I simply shall not do it.”

“You had better dismiss that idea from your mind at once, my dear,” said Mrs. Willard.  “Mr. Harley never compels.  No compulsion is the corner-stone of his literary structure; free will is his creed: you may count on that.  If he means to make you his heroine still, it will be at Newport if you are at Newport, at Riverdale if you happen to be at Riverdale.  Do come with me, even if he does impress you as endeavoring to force you; for at Newport I shall be your chaperon, and I should dearly love to be put in a book—with you.  Bob has asked Jack Perkins down, and Mrs. Howlett writes me that Count Bonetti, of Naples, is there, and is a really delightful fellow.  We shall have—”

“You simply confirm my fears,” interrupted Marguerite.  “You are to be Harley’s chaperon, Professor Perkins is his hero, and Count Bonetti is the villain—”

“Why, Marguerite, how you talk!” cried Mrs. Willard.  “Do you exist merely in Stuart Harley’s brain?  Do I?  Are we none of us living creatures to do as we will?  Are we nothing more than materials pigeon-holed for Mr. Harley’s future use?  Has Count Bonetti crossed the ocean just to please Mr. Harley?”

“I don’t know what I believe,” said Miss Andrews, “and I don’t care much either way, as long as I have independence of action.  I’ll go with you, Dorothy; but if it turns out, as I fear, that we are expected to act our parts in a Harley romance, that romance will receive a shock from which it will never recover.”

“Why do you object so to Mr. Harley, anyhow?  I thought you liked his books,” said Mrs. Willard.

“I do; some of them,” Marguerite answered; “and I like him; but he does not understand me, and until he does he shall not put me in his stories.  I’ll rout him at every point, until he—”

Marguerite paused.  Her face flushed.