“I should think it disgusting to count them, Mr. Savage, even if he could,” said Lady Jane, severely. “I can count mine backwards,” he said. “Beginning at one?” “Yes, Lady Jane; one in my teens, none at present. No task, at all, to count mine.” “Won't you give me the name of that old sweetheart of mine, Lady Saxondale? Whom is the prince to marry?” asked Quentin. “Dorothy Garrison. She lived in your block seven or eight years ago, up to the time she went to Brussels with her mother. Now, do you remember?” “You don't mean it! Little Dorothy? By George, she was a pretty girl, too. Of course, I remember her. But that was ages ago. She was fourteen and I was nineteen. You are right, Lady Saxondale. I'll confess to having regarded her as the fairest creature the sun ever shone upon. For six solid, delicious months she was the foundation of every thought that touched my brain. And then--well, what happened then? Oh, yes; we quarrelled and forgot each other. So she's the girl who's to marry the prince, is she?” Quentin's face was serious for the moment; a far-off look of real concern came into his eyes. He was recalling a sweet, dainty face, a girlish figure, and the days gone by. “How odd I did not think of it before. Really, you two were dreadful spoons in those days. Mamma used to worry for fear you'd carry out your threat to run away with her. And now she's to be a real live princess.” Lady Frances created a profound sensation when she resurrected Quentin's boyhood love affair with the one American girl that all Europe talked about at that moment. Lord Bob was excited, perhaps for the first time since he proposed to Frances Thornow. “By Jove, old man, this is rare, devilish rare. No wonder you have such a deuced antipathy to the prince. Intuition must have told you that he was to marry one of the ladies of your past.” “Why, Bob, we were children, and there was nothing to it. Truly, I had forgotten that pretty child--that's all she was--and I'll warrant she wouldn't remember my name if some one spoke it in her presence. Every boy and girl has had that sort of an affair.” “She's the most beautiful creature I ever saw,” cried Lady Jane, ecstatically. Dickey Savage looked sharply at her vivacious face. “When did you last see her, Mr. Quentin?” “I can't recall, but I know it was when her hair hung down her back. She left New York before she was fifteen, I'm quite sure. I think I was in love with a young widow fourteen years my senior, at the time, and did not pay much heed to Dorothy's departure. She and her mother have been traveling since then?”