"D

know."

EAR lady, lived somewhere beyond Boston; the piefor-breakfast sort, you

Bijou Mott looked around for approval, and Mrs. Clarke answered his appeal with a soul-satisfying shriek.

"Fancy Ned Peele's ever having had an aunt who ate pie for breakfast!"

"Fancy his ever having had an aunt at all!"

"The funniest of all is to fancy the poor lamb's having any money at all."

Lady Arkney carefully patted her intricate curls and frizzes. "Was he poor, then?" she asked.

Lulu Clarke laughed again. “As poor as a church mouse, my dear."

"Did pretty well for a mouse, didn't he, though, Lulu?"

"Must have been a bat-winged mouse, you see!"

"You are abominably silly, Bijou; drink your tea, and hold your peace.' "Peace-when you are beside me, queen of my soul?"

Lady Arkney watched them, curiously. "You Americans are so fresh," she said, at length. "You do say such rippin' things to one another. Fancy, 'queen of my soul'!"

"Perhaps, you mean that I have no soul?" asked Bijou, inspired to further brilliance by her ladyship's admiration. Every one laughed. It is the proper It is the proper thing to do when Bijou Mott has made a joke, and the approval of an English countess makes the task easier.

It was six o'clock, and the sea, stretching before them, was an undulating sheet of gold; to the left, the cliffs, rising sheer out of the deep

May 1903-1

water, presented a wonderful study in color and shadow.

These things, however, no one noticed. The octagon, a large, open room, built upon one corner of Sea View, was so much more interesting, with its four occupants, and its tea and ices.

Lulu Clarke, who, as a rule, was spoken of as the beautiful Mrs. Clarke, to distinguish her from her sister-inlaw, the good Mrs. Clarke, leaned back in her much-cushioned chair, and played with her gold teaspoon; Lady Arkney-the frankness of the rouge and white on her weather-beaten skin betokened a certain strength of character-had crossed her legs, and was apparently interested in the pattern of her openwork stockings. The two men, O'Hara and Bijou Mott, watched the women.

"Oh, I've always forgotten to ask you, Mr. O'Hara, why do some people call you count '?"

Lady Arkney's sudden remark doubled up Bijou, and brought a flush to the cheek of the elder man.

"I am a count, Lady Arkney. The Holy Father gave me the title-inin return for some slight services I was able to render him.”

She looked at him, meditatively. "Now, what does the man mean?" she asked. "The Holy Father.' We used to call Gladstone 'Holy Moses.'" Bijou shouted.

"Count O'Hara means the Pope, Nell," put in Lulu, who was rather good-natured, at times.

"Oh, I see. Not goin', are you?" O'Hara had risen. "I fear I must. I promised Mrs. Harry Wolcott to drop