Jimmy had collaborated with the prince on a telegram which was to be sent by the bridegroom to Junius P. Easton immediately after the ceremony. It would, he felt, give an added touch of the picturesque to the proposed program of events: “Your sister has done me the high honor of becoming my princess,” it read, “and all Hydrabad will kneel in proud homage at her feet. I have cabled my revered father for his august blessing. May we not hope that you will shower your honorable good wishes on us.” The prince and Miss Fannie were in the music room when Jimmy was announced. She had just been singing “Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes” to her own accompaniment on the piano and she was as radiant as a June morning. She wore a tea gown of baby blue, embroidered with pink rosebuds, and her bleached hair was done up into a billowy cluster of tiny curls which swayed with every movement of her head and which somehow accentuated the essential maturity of her foolish fat face. Jimmy gave an almost audible gasp when he crossed the threshold of the door. He was prepared for the worst, but he had not expected to find himself face to face with a being out of the comic supplement. She ran to meet him, laughing sillily. “How do you do,” she said gayly, extending a pudgy hand. “It isn’t necessary for the dear prince to introduce you. He’s told me all about you and I know that we’re going to be kindred souls. You must vibrate on our plane, you know. I’m certain you must because you are his friend and one’s friends always vibrate on one’s plane. Don’t they, Rajjy, dear?” “Of course, my jasmine bud,” replied the prince from the sheltered embrace of a huge arm chair. “Mr. Martin is of our inner circle. He shares the secrets of our hearts, sweet lily. He is my councilor and chosen guide. Let us bid him sup coffee with us which you will pour with your much-to-be adored hands.” Jimmy cast a roving eye in the general direction of his dark-skinned fellow conspirator and was greeted by the latter with an expressive wink, which was not visible to Miss Fannie, who was bustling about a silver tray on which was a pot of steaming coffee. She poured and served it with a fluttering air of heavy coquetry which irritated the press agent beyond measure and which made him feel decidedly uncomfortable. She was such a simple, trusting, foolish soul that he didn’t have the heart to enlarge upon the merits of the bridegroom-to-be in the expansive and flowery fashion he had decided upon on the way from the hotel. He remained strangely silent for a time listening to an exchange of preposterous love words between this oddly assorted and incongruous pair and wishing himself a long distance away.