“Dear old Gus! I look forward to being pals with Gus, when I give him the password. Now, the future—ah, my dear, what a future! Broadway! Bright lights! Music! And Princess Lalla in the chorus first, the most adorable little ‘pony’ of them all! I shall sit in the bald-headed row and toss roses to you, child, and whisper to the eggs next me that ‘I knew her when’—when she was a delicious little fake Turkish princess, escaped from the Sultan’s harem. And I see a man—let me look closely—a tall, dark man, rather handsome—” and he laughed insolently into her eyes. “La-dees and gen-tle-men! Right this way, please! I want you all to meet Princess Lalla, from Con-stan-ti-no-ple—” Gus, the barker, was approaching with long, swift strides, the crowd milling behind him, like sheep following a bellwether. “I’ll finish your future in our next seance.” The New Yorker straightened, smiled into her eyes unhurriedly, bowed mockingly, lifted his hat, placed it on his sleek head, retrieved his cane which had been leaning against the crystal stand, and vaulted lightly to the ground. Gus eyed him menacingly, suspiciously, but beamed when the easterner pressed a bill into his hands and withdrew to the outskirts of the crowd, where he evidently intended to listen to the spieler’s introduction of Princess Lalla. Sally got through her performance somehow, burningly conscious of bold black eyes regarding her admiringly. When she pattered down the steps and along the flattened stubble of the earth floor of the tent on her way to the dress tent to rest between shows, a slim, immaculate figure detached itself from the crowd that was wandering reluctantly toward the exit. “Cook tent fare must grow rather monotonous,” his low, drawling voice stopped her. “I suggest relief—supper with me after the last performance tonight. I am stopping at the governor’s mansion, and have the use of one of the official limousines. Credentials enough?” He raised his eyebrows whimsically but his detaining grasp of her arm was not nearly so gentle as his voice. “No, no!” Sally cried. “I—I’m not that kind of girl! Please let me go—” “Oh, spirit of H. L. Mencken, hear me!” the New Yorker prayed. “Do girls in the middle west really say that still? I wouldn’t have believed it! ‘I’m not that kind of girl!’” he repeated, laughing delightedly. “Of course you aren’t, darling! No girl ever is! And heaven forbid that I should be the sort of man—fellow, you say out here?—that you evidently believe I am! Now that we understand each other, I again suggest supper, a long, cooling drive in the governor’s choicest limousine—the old boy does himself rather well in cars, at the expense of the state—and a continuation of my extremely accurate reading of your future.” “No!” Sally flared, her timidity submerged in anger. “Let me go this minute! I don’t like you! I hate you! If you don’t turn loose my arm, I’ll—I’ll scream ‘Hey rube’—”