“Oh, if I could buy a steady, well-broken, tractable one, I'd take him as an investment, perhaps, but I believe, on the whole, I'd rather put the money into a general menagerie like Barnum's or Forepaugh's. You get such a variety of beasts that way, you know.” “Come, now, Phil, your sarcasm is unjust. Prince Ugo is very much of a gentleman, and Bob says he is very clever, too. Did you see much of him last night?” “I saw him at the club and talked a bit with him. Then I saw him while I slept. He is much better in the club than he is in a dream.” “You dreamed of him last night? He certainly made an impression, then,” she said. “I dreamed I saw him abusing a harmless, overworked and underfed little monkey on the streets of New York.” “How absurd!” “The monkey wouldn't climb up to the window of my apartment to collect nickels for the vilest hand-organ music a man ever heard, even in a nightmare.” “Phil Quentin, you are manufacturing that dream as you sit here. Wait till you know him better and you will like him.” “His friends, too? One of those chaps looks as if he might throw a bomb with beautiful accuracy--the Laselli duke, I think. Come, now, Frances, you'll admit he's an ugly brute, won't you?” “Yes, you are quite right, and I can't say that the count impresses me more favorably.” “I'll stake my head the duke's ancestors were brigands or something equally appalling. A couple of poor, foolish American girls elevate them both to the position of money-spenders-in-chief though, I presume, and the newspapers will sizzle.” At dinner that evening the discussion was resumed, all those at the table taking part. The tall young American was plainly prejudiced against the Italian, but his stand was a mystery to all save Lord Bob. Dickey Savage was laboriously non-committal until Lady Jane took sides unequivocally with Quentin. Then he vigorously defended the unlucky prince. Lady Saxondale and Sir James Graham, one of the guests, took pains to place the Italian in the best light possible before the critical American. “I almost forgot to tell you, Phil,” suddenly cried Lady Saxondale, her pretty face beaming with excitement. “The girl he is to marry is an old flame of yours.” “Quite impossible, Lady Frances. I never had a flame.” “But she was, I'm sure.” “Are you a theosophist?” asked Phil, gaily, but he listened nevertheless. Who could she be? It seemed for the moment, as his mind swept backward, that he had possessed a hundred sweethearts. “I've had no sweetheart since I began existence in the present form.” “Good Lord!” ejaculated Dickey, solemnly and impressively. “I'll bet my soul Frances is right,” drawled Lord Bob. “She always is, you know. My boy, if she says you had a sweetheart, you either had one or somebody owes you one. You've never collected, perhaps.” “If he collected them he'd have a harem,” observed Mr. Savage, sagely. “He's had so many he can't count 'em.”