in this pretty piece of extravagance except the third son of an English baronet, who was too busy explaining how it was done at home: "Purely a British custom, you understand—the wardroom of a man-of-war, d'ye see.—They were officers of a Scotch regiment, and they drank it standing on their chairs, with one foot on the table. And, by gad, I didn't care for it!"—No doubt I should have learned more concerning this purely British custom if the Pierpont Morgan of Pennsylvania hadn't called on Blakely for a speech, just then. Poor Blakely! He didn't know at all how to make a speech. Thought I must say I was rather glad of it; the most tiresome thing about Americans is their eternal speechmaking, I think.

Blakely having faltered his few words of thanks, some one proposed the duke's health; but that had to wait till new glasses were brought in and filled. Altogether, then, instead of being a solemn, dignified affair, such as one might have expected, it was a tremendously jolly dinner—a little rowdy, perhaps, but delightfully friendly. If I had entered the dining room as Old Tom Middleton's daughter, "who actually used to live over a livery stable, my dear," it was not so I left it; for the nimbus of the sacred name of Porter had already begun to shed its beautiful light on my many graces and social accomplishments. Indeed, when I retired with my hostess to the drawing room, it was to hold a sort of reception; Mrs. Tudor Carstairs vied with Mrs. Sanderson-Spear in assurances of regard, "Choicest Flowers" expressed approval, the German baroness, bless her, conferred the distinction of a motherly kiss. And Blakely's mother was so gracious, so kind and considerate, it was hard to believe we had faced each other, five hours before, with something very like hatred in our eyes.

When Blakely and Dad, and the other men joined us, I was so happy I could have kicked both my slippers to the ceiling. I might have disgraced myself doing it, too, if the third son of the English baronet hadn't come up just then to felicitate me. He would have done it charmingly if he hadn't felt constrained to add that Americans always say "dook" instead of "duke," that nobody present seemed to realize the proper way to address a nephew of the Czar was to call him Monseigneur, that the Olympic games in London had been conducted admirably, arid that he didn't believe in marriage, anyway.

But the sweetest thing to me of all that wonderful evening was to see the love and gratitude in Blakely's eyes when he looked at his mother; for a man who doesn't love his mother misses much, and I love Blakely so tenderly, I couldn't bear to have him miss the last then that makes for contentment and happiness.

Chapter Eleven

When I awoke, late next morning, it was to find myself, if not famous, at least conspicuous; in the Los Angeles newspaper Valentine brought me with my coffee, much space was devoted to the ducal dinner.

GRAND DUKE SMASHES CHAMPAGNE GLASSES

Miss Middleton Toasted in Truly Royal Fashion by Distinguished Nephew of Russia's Reigning Czar.

Brilliant Dinner Reaches Climax in Shower of Costly Crystal While Hostess Smiles Approval.

Disgusting as it was, I couldn't help laughing at the pen-and-ink sketch which accompanied it—a sketch of the duke, with crowned head, and breast covered with decorations, smiling fatuously from within a rakish border of broken champagne glasses.

But there was worse to come. On another page under the heading:

WHIRLWIND WOOING WINS WESTERN GIRL

a distorted Cupid supported pictures of Blakely and me, while beneath our pictures, a most fulsome chronicle of untruths was presented. "Mr. Porter first met his fiancee on shipboard..... Being of that fine old New York stock which never takes 'no' for an answer, he followed her to Santa Barbara..... If rumor is to be credited, the Grand Duke Alexander, as well as Cupid, was concerned in this singularly up-to-date love affair..... Mr. Porter's sister, the Countess de Bienville, is a well-known leader in exclusive Parisian circles..... Miss Middleton an only daughter of Thomas Middleton, the mining magnate..... Although slightly indisposed, His Imperial Highness granted an interview to our representative late last evening. If the time-worn adage, in vino veritas, is to be believed; it is certain that the wedding will not only take place soon, but that the favorite nephew of the Czar of all the Russias will himself appear in this charming romance of throbbing hearts, playing the role of best man."

It was really too dreadful; my cheeks burned with mortification and anger.

People had assured me the horrid little American newspaper published in Paris was not typical of America—that it was no more than a paid panderer to seekers after notoriety. Yet here in California, my own dear California, a newspaper had dared print my picture without my consent, had thrown its ugly light on the sweet story of my love serving it up in yellow paragraphs for the benefit of the bootblack, the butcher, the waiter in cheap restaurants. What a hideous world!

Pleading a sick headache, I stayed in my room till tea time.

We had tea at five, Blakely and I, on the roof of the hotel. I looked across the channel to the distant islands, followed the sweet contour of the shore, watched the aimless flight of sea-gulls; turning, I scanned the friendly hills, the mountains painted in the tender colors of late afternoon—I looked into Blakely's eyes. It was a beautiful world, after all. "Let's try and forget that awful newspaper," I said.

"I forgot it long ago, dear."

"You also seem to have forgotten that some one may appear any minute."

"Let's try and forget that some one may appear any minute."

"I can't."

"You shouldn't say 'I can't,' Elizabeth; you should say 'I'll try'."

It is really surprising what one can do when one tries.