"Be gentle with me, boy," said Paddock unhappily. "I'm in a horrible mess. The graft, Dick--the good old graft. It's over and done with now." "What do you mean?" "It happened last night after our wild chase of Harrowby--I was fussed--excited---- I prepared two sets of repartee for my two customers to use to-night----" "Yes?" "I always make carbon copies to refer to myself just before the stuff is to be used. A few minutes ago I took out my copies. Dick! I sent the same repartee to both of them!" "Good lord!" "Good lord is meek and futile. So is damn. Put on your little rubber coat, my boy. I predict a hurricane." In spite of his own troubles, Minot laughed. "Mirth, eh?" said Paddock grimly. "I can't see it that way. I'll be as popular as a Republican in Texas before this evening is over. Got a couple of hasty rapid-fire resignations all ready. Thought at first I wouldn't come--but that seemed cowardly. Anyway, this is my last appearance on any stage as a librettist. Kindly omit flowers." And Mr. Paddock drifted gloomily away. While the servants were passing cocktails on gleaming trays, Minot found the door to the balcony and stepped outside. A white wraith flitted from the shadows to his side. "Mr. Minot," said a soft, scared little voice. "Ah--Miss Meyrick," he cried. Merciful fate this, that they met for the first time since that incident on the ramparts in kindly darkness. "Miss Meyrick," began Minot hurriedly, "I'm very glad to have a moment alone with you. I want to apologize--for last night--I was mad--I did Harrowby a very palpable wrong. I'm very ashamed of myself as I look back. Can I hope that you will--forget--all I said?" She did not reply, but stood looking down at the palms far below. "Can I hope that you will forget--and forgive?" She glanced up at him, and her eyes shone in the dusk. "I can forgive," she said softly. "But I can't forget. Mr.--Mr. Minot----" "Yes?" "What--what--is--woman's greatest privilege?" Something in the tone of her voice sent a cold chill sweeping through Minot's very soul. He clutched the rail for support. "If--if you'd answer," said the girl, "it would make it easier for----" Aunt Mary's generous form appeared in the doorway. "Oh, there you are, Cynthia! You are keeping the duchess' dinner waiting." Cynthia Meyrick joined her aunt. Minot stayed behind a moment. Below him Florida swam in the azure night. What had the girl been about to say? Pulling himself together, he went inside and learned that he was to take in to dinner a glorious blond bridesmaid. When they were seated, he found that Miss Meyrick's face was hidden from him by a profusion of Florida blossoms. He was glad of that. He wanted to think--think. A few others were thinking at that table, Mrs. Bruce and the duchess among them. Mrs. Bruce was mentally rehearsing. The duchess glanced at her. "The wittiest woman in San Marco," thought the hostess. "Bah!"