“I cannot come to-morrow,” he said. “I did not say 'to-morrow.'” “But I'll come on Friday,” he went on, decisively. She looked concerned for an instant and then smiled. “Lady Marnham will give you tea on Friday. I shall not be at home,” she said. “But I am going back to New York next week,” he said, confidently. “Next week? Are you so busy?” “I am not anxious to return, but my man Turk says he hates London. He says he'll leave me if I stay here a month. I can't afford to lose Turk.” “And he can't afford to lose you. Stay, Phil; the Saxondales are such jolly people.” “How about the tea on Friday?” “Oh, that is no consideration.” “But it is, you know. You used to give me tea every day in the week.” He saw at once that he had gone beyond the lines, and drew back wisely. “Let me come on Friday, and we'll have a good, sensible chat.” “On that one condition,” she said, earnestly. “Thank you. Good-bye. I see Lady Frances is ready to go. Evidently I have monopolized you to a somewhat thoughtless extent. Everybody is looking daggers at me, including the prince, who came in ten minutes ago.” He arose and held her hand for a moment at parting. Her swift, abashed glance toward Prince Ugo, whose presence she had not observed, did not escape his eyes. She looked up and saw the peculiar smile on Quentin's lips, and there was deep meaning in her next remark to him: “You will meet the prince here on Friday. I shall ask him to come early, that he may learn to know you better.” “Thank you. I'd like to know him better. At what hour is he to come?” “By 3:30, at least,” she said, pointedly. “Too early to be correct, you suspect?” “I think not. You may expect me before three. I am not a stickler for form.” “We shall not serve tea until four o'clock,” she said, coldly. “That's my hour for tea--just my hour,” he said, blithely. She could not repress the smile that his old willfulness brought to her lips and eyes. “Thank you, for the smile. It was worth struggling for.” He was gone before she could respond, but the smile lingered as her eyes followed his tall figure across the room. She saw him pause and speak to Prince Ugo, and then pass out with Lady Saxondale. Only Lady Saxondale observed the dark gleam in the Italian's eyes as he responded to the big American's unconventional greeting. On the way home she found herself wondering if Dorothy had ever spoken to the prince of Philip Quentin and those tender, foolish days of girlhood. “Has she lost any of the charm?” she asked. “I am not quite sure. I'm to find out on Friday.” “Are you going back on Friday?” in surprise. “To drink tea, you know.” “Did she ask you to come?” “Can't remember, but I think I suggested it.” “Be careful, Phil; I don't want you to turn Dorothy Garrison's head.” “You compliment me by even suspecting that I could. Her head is set; it can't be turned. It is set for that beautiful, bejewelled thing they call a coronet. Besides, I don't want to turn it.”