Blakely was awfully angry. He said: "Look here, I don't know what you've been used to, but in this country, where a man wishes to meet a young lady, he asks to be presented to her. Not only that, but he doesn't take it for granted that she'll be honored by the request. Miss Middleton is my fiancee. I don't know whether she cares to meet you or not. If she does, I'll let you know." The duke was terribly mortified. He apologized beautifully. Then Blakely apologized for getting angry, and they became better friends than ever, with the result that the duke was presented to me that very afternoon. The Grand Duke Alexander was short and fat and fair, with a yellow mustache of the Kaiser Wilhelm variety. It was rather a shock to me, for I had expected a dashing black-haired person with flashing eyes and a commanding presence. No, he wasn't at all my idea of what a grand duke should look like; he looked much more like a little brother to the ox (a well-bred, well-dressed, bath-loving little brother, of course) than a member of an imperial family. Not that he didn't have his points: he had nice hands and nice feet, and his smile was charming. You should have seen his face light up when he found I spoke French. The poor fellow wasn't a bit at home in the English language and the eagerness with which he plunged into French was really pathetic. Luckily, Blakely spoke French, too--not very well, but he understood it lots better than he spoke it--so we three spent a pleasant hour together on the veranda. Of course, in a way, it was a little triumph for me; the women whom Blakely's mother had snubbed enjoyed the sight immensely, and when she appeared, accompanied by Mrs. Sanderson-Spear and some of the "Choicest Flowers," and saw what was happening to her duke, she was too angry for words. Heavens, how that woman did hate me that afternoon! The next morning six more "Choicest Flowers" arrived from San Francisco (rare orchids whose grandfathers had come over from Ireland in the steerage). The third son of an English baronet who owned a chicken-ranch near Los Angeles and a German count who sold Rhine wines to the best families also appeared; for that night Blakely's mother was to give such a dinner as had never before been given in Santa Barbara. Under the heading: SANTA BARBARA NOW THE MOST COSMOPOLITAN CITY IN AMERICA