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her thanks were not very sincere. I am bound to admit that Olivia puzzled me that night. To extract the proposal of marriage from Ballester was within the rules of the game and good play into the bargain. But to come back again as she had done, was not quite fair. However, as I watched her go, I thought that I would keep my bewilderment to myself. I have never asked Harry Vandeleur, for instance, whether he could explain it. I went back to the study.

      "I think fifty dollars will be ample," said Ballester, still figuring on his paper. "Has she gone?"

      "She is going," said I. He rose from his chair, broke off a rose from a bowl of flowers which, on this night only, decorated the room. Then he opened the window and leaned out. Olivia, I reckoned, would be just at this moment stepping into the carriage. He tossed the rose down and drew back quickly out of sight.

      "Shall it be green paint, your Excellency?" I asked.

      His Excellency, I regret to say, swore loudly.

      "Never in this world!" said he.

      I had left the door open. The music of a languorous and melting waltz filled the room.

      "I do loathe music!" cried Juan Ballester violently. It was the nearest approach to a sentimental remark that I had ever heard him make.

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