In fact, Major Alan Hawke at last recognized the existence of a species of womanhood which he had never before met. Miss Genie was frankly unconventional, and yet she was both hard-headed and hardhearted. When he carefully dressed himself for the intellectual feast of Mademoiselle Delande’s “refined collation,” he dimly became aware that the role of unpaid bear leader to the Chicago girl simply amounted to being an unsalaried valet de place! “As for compromising that devil of a girl,” he growled, “she could have given the snake in the Garden of Eden long odds and beaten him hollow, in subtlety.” This view of the impeccability of the Chicago epidermis was confirmed later when Hawke returned from the “Institute” at the decorous hour of ten that evening. He was thoroughly happy, for the sly Francois was ready to meet him at the door, whispering: “I will be at your rooms at ten, and bring you the photographs. I have a couple of hours of freedom then.” Mademoiselle Euphrosyne’s pale, anemic nature had bloomed out under the graceful attentions of the gallant officer, and gradually she expanded, little by little unfolding the desiccated leaves of her tranquil past, and, yielding, as of old, to the charm of youth and good looks, the faded spinster told him all. “I will sell my precious knowledge, bit by bit, to Madame Berthe,” he ruminated. “Evidently the Louison dares not face this stony-faced Swiss Medusa. The felices histoires of Francois will fill up my mental notebook.” Major Hawke then sat down at ease in the cafe of the Hotel National to indite a dispatch of spartan brevity to “Madame Louison” at the Hotel Faucon, Lausanne. “The Cook’s Agency tell me that the London draft will be paid to-morrow. Francois will deliver me the photographs, and relate his selected historical excerpts, and then I will be ready to have a duel of wits with Madame Berthe.” So he simply telegraphed to Lausanne: “Successful--arrive to-morrow night.” He then dispatched the head porter with the telegram, and while enjoying his parting brandy and soda, was suddenly made aware of the near proximity of Mr. Phineas Forbes of Chicago, who was anxiously drinking cocktail after cocktail in a moody unrest. The lank Chicago capitalist waved his tufted chin beard dejectedly as he answered the Briton’s casual salutation. “I’m worried about the girls,” he simply said. “They’re off on the lake, with the Marquis de Santa Marina and that French chap, the Count de Roquefort. I don’t more than half like it.” The hour was late, and the heavy father glued his eyes upon the darkened window pane. “Is Madame Forbes with them?” murmured the Englishman.