“Oh,” cried out his comrade, in a tone of plaintive protest, “I said red-haired. You can’t pretend that red-haired women are the same.” “The same, with the addition of a little henna,” the pale young man argued wearily. “It may surprise you to learn that I was thinking of red-haired women who are born red-haired,” his friend remarked, from an altitude. “In that case,” said he, “I admit there is a difference—they have white eyelashes.” And he emptied his glass of green stuff. “Is all this apropos of boots?” he questioned. The other regarded him solemnly. “It’s apropos of your immortal soul,” he answered, nodding his head. “It’s medicine for a mind diseased. The only thing that will wake you up, and put a little life and human nature in you, is a love-affair with a red-haired woman. Red in the hair means fire in the heart. It means all sorts of things. If you really wish to please me, Uncle, you’ll go and fall in love with a red-haired woman.” The younger man, whom the elder addressed as Uncle, shrugged his shoulders, and gave a little sniff. Then he lighted a cigarette. The elder man left the table, and went to the open window. “Heavens, what weather!” he exclaimed fervently. “The day is made of perfumed velvet. The air is a love-philtre. The whole world sings romance. And yet you—insensible monster!—you can sit there torpidly—-” But abruptly he fell silent. His attention had been caught by something below, in the garden. He watched it for an instant from his place by the window; then he stepped forth upon the balcony, still watching. Suddenly, facing halfway round, “By my bauble, Nunky,” he called to his companion, and his voice was tense with surprised exultancy, “she’s got red hair!” The younger man looked up with vague eyes. “Who? What?” he asked languidly. “Come here, come here,” his friend urged, beckoning him. “There,” he indicated, when the pale man had joined him, “below there—to the right—picking roses. She’s got red hair. She’s sent by Providence.” A woman in a white frock was picking roses, in one of the alleys of the garden; rather a tall woman. Her back was turned towards her observers; but she wore only a light scarf of lace over her head, and her hair—dim gold in its shadows—where the sun touched it, showed a soul of red. The younger man frowned, and asked sharply, “Who the devil is she?” “I don’t know, I’m sure,” replied the other. “One of the Queen’s women, probably. But whoever she is, she’s got red hair.” The younger man frowned more fiercely still. “What is she doing in the King’s private garden? This is a pretty state of things.” He stamped his foot angrily. “Go down and turn her out. And I wish measures to be taken, that such trespassing may not occur again.”