"Existence? That depends. Am I to come to Guenn Oaks?" "I'm sure you'd be awfully in the way there," she said petulantly. "You've been a perfect nuisance for the last two days." "My picturesqueness has gone glimmering, now that I'm only a Smith instead of a Daddleskink. Why, oh, why must these lovely illusions ever perish!" "_You_ killed cock-robin," she accused. "Not at all. It was Dr. Alderson with his misplaced application of the truth." "Anyway, I don't find you nearly so entertaining, now that you're plain Mr. Smith." "Nor I you as Miss Cecily Wayne, equally plain if not plainer." "In that case," she suggested with a mock-mournful glance from beneath the slanted brows, "this acquaintance might as well die a painless death." "But for one little matter that you've forgotten." "And that?" "The Magnificent Manling of the Steerage." "So I had forgotten! Let's go make our call on him. We must not neglect him a moment longer." The Tyro leaped to his feet and they ran, hand in hand like two children, down to their point of observation of the less favored passengers. They spent a lively half-hour with the small Teuton, at the end of which Little Miss Grouch issued imperative commands to the Tyro to the effect that he was to wait at the pier when they got in, and see to it that mother and child were safely forwarded to the transfer. "Yessum," said the Tyro meekly. "Anything further?" "I'll let you know," she returned, royally. "You may wire me when the commission is executed. Perhaps, if you carry it through very nicely, I'll let you come to Guenn Oaks." "Salaam, O Empress," returned the Tyro, executing a most elaborate Oriental bow, the concluding spiral of which almost involved him in Mrs. Charlton Denyse's suddenly impending periphery. Mrs. Denyse retired three haughty paces. "I wish to speak to Miss Wayne," she announced with a manner which implied that she did not wish and never again would wish to speak to Miss Wayne's companion. "With me?" asked Little Miss Grouch, bland surprise in her voice. "Yes. I have a message." Little Miss Grouch waited. "A private message," continued the lady. "Is it very private? You know Mr. Daddleskink-Smith, I believe?" "I've seen Mr. Daddleskink-Smith," frigidly replied the lady, mistaking the introducer's hesitation for a hyphen, "if that is what he calls himself now." "It isn't," said the Tyro. "You know, Mrs. Denyse, I've always held that the permutation of names according to the taste of the inheritor, is one of the most interesting phases of social ingenuity." Mrs. Charlton Denyse, relict of the late Charley Dennis, turned a deep Tyrian purple. "If you would be good enough--" she began, when the girl broke in:-- "Is your message immediate, Mrs. Denyse?" "It is from my cousin, Mr. Van Dam." "To me?" cried the girl. "No. To me. By wireless. But it concerns you." "In that case I don't think I'm interested," said the girl, her color rising. "You must excuse me." And she walked on.