That night at dinner, the family being all present, Barfleur in his chair at the head of the table, the wine at his right, I said mildly-- “I saw the most beautiful woman to-day I have yet seen in England.” Barfleur was just in the act of elevating a glass of champagne to his lips, but he paused to fix me with an inquiring eye. “Where?” he questioned solemnly. “Were you in the city?” “Not at all. I rarely, if ever, see them in the city. It was very near here. A most beautiful woman,--very French,--trim figure, small feet, a gay air. She had a lovely three-year-old child with her riding a white donkey.” “A white donkey? Trim, very French, you say? This is most interesting! I don’t recall any one about here who keeps a white donkey. Berenice,” he turned to his young daughter. “Do you recall any one hereabout who keeps a white donkey?” Berenice, a wizard of the future, merely smiled wisely. “I do not, Papa.” “This is very curious, very curious indeed,” continued Barfleur, returning to me. “For the life of me, I cannot think of any one who keeps a white donkey. Who can she be? Walking very near here, you say? I shall have a look into this. She may be the holiday guest of some family. But the donkey and child and maid--Young, you say? Percy, you don’t remember whether any one hereabout owns a white donkey,--any one with a maid and a three-year-old child?” Percy smiled broadly. “No, I don’t,” he said. Barfleur shook his head in mock perturbation. “It’s very strange,” he said. “I don’t like the thought of there being any really striking women hereabout of whom I know nothing.” He drank his wine. There was no more of this then, but I knew that in all probability the subject would come up again. Barfleur inquired, and Wilkins inquired, and as was natural, the lady was located. She turned out to be the wife of a tennis, golf, and aeroplane expert or champion, a man who held records for fast automobiling and the like, and who was independently settled in the matter of means. Mrs. Barton Churchill was her name as I recall. It also turned out most unfortunately that Barfleur did not know her, and could not place any one who did. “This is all very trying,” he said when he discovered this much. “Here you are, a celebrated American author, admiring a very attractive woman whom you meet on the public highway; and here am I, a resident of the neighborhood in which she is living, and I do not even know her. If I did, it would all be very simple. I could take you over, she would be immensely flattered at the nice things you have said about her. She would be grateful to me for bringing you. Presto,--we should be fast friends.” “Exactly,” I replied sourly. “You and she would be fast friends. After I am gone in a few days all will be lovely. I shall not be here to protect my interests. It is always the way. I am the cat’s paw, the bait, the trap. I won’t stand for it. I saw her first, and she is mine.”