“Often, oh, so very often. I have not been in New York for years. Lady Saxondale goes back so often that she doesn't have the chance to grow homesick.” “I hear you are going over this fall,” said Quentin, with a fair show of interest. “Who--who told you so?” she asked, in some surprise. He could not detect confusion. “Prince Ravorelli. At least, he said he expected to make the trip this fall. Am I wrong in suspecting that he is not going alone?” “We mean to spend much of the winter in the United States, chiefly in Florida. I shall depend on you, Phil, to be nice to him in New York. You can do so much to make it pleasant for him. He has never been in New York, you know.” “It may depend on what he will consider pleasant. I don't believe he will enjoy all the things I like. But I'll try. I'll get Dickey Savage to give a dinner for him, and if he can survive that, he's capable of having a good time anywhere. Dickey's dinners are the real test, you know. Americans stand them because they are rugged and accustomed to danger.” “You will find Prince Ugo rugged,” she said, flushing slightly, and he imagined he could distinguish a softness in her tone. “I am told he is an athlete, a great horseman, a marvelous swordsman,” said Lady Frances. “I am glad you have heard something about him that is true,” said Dorothy, a trifle quickly. “Usually they say that princes are all that is detestable and unmanly. I am sure you will like him, Phil.” Mrs. Garrison came up at this moment with Lady Marnham, and Quentin arose to greet the former as warmly as he could under the smooth veil of hypocrisy. Again, just before Lady Frances signaled to him that it was time for them to leave, he found himself in conversation, over the teacups, with Dorothy Garrison. This time they were quite alone. “It doesn't seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I used to know,” he said, reflectively. “Have I changed so much?” she asked, and there was in her manner an icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip Quentin. “In every way. You were charming in those days.” “And not charming now, I infer.” “You are more than charming now. That is hardly a change, however, is it? Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful. Then, you were--” “I don't like flattery, Phil,” she said, hurt by what she felt to be an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity. “I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never said nice things unless I meant them. But, now that I think of it, it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old friend, and an old--er--chum.” “Won't you have a cup of tea?” she asked, as calmly as if he were the merest stranger and had never seen her till this hour. “A dozen, if it pleases you,” he said, laughingly, looking straight into the dark eyes she was striving so hard to keep cold and unfriendly. “Then you must come another day,” she answered, brightly.