He came presently to a narrow cross street, where humbler merchants catered to the Coney instinct that lurks in even the most affluent of tourists. There gaudy souvenir stores abounded. The ugly and inevitable alligator, fallen from his proud estate to fireside slipper, wallet, cigar case, umbrella stand, photograph album and Lord-knows-what, was head-lined in this street. Picture post-cards hung in flocks, tin-type galleries besought, news-stands, soda-water fountains and cheap boarding-houses stood side by side. And, every few feet, Mr. Minot came upon "The Oldest House in San Marco." On his way back to the hotel, in front of one of the more dazzling modiste's shops, he saw a limousine drawn up to the curb, and in it Jack Paddock, friend of his college days. Paddock leaped blithely from the machine and grasped Dick Minot by the hand. "You here?" he cried. "Foolish question," commented Mr. Minot. "Yes, I know," said Mr. Paddock. "Been here so long my brain's a little flabby. But I'm glad to see you, old man." "Same here." Mr. Minot stared at the car. "I say, Jack, did you earn that writing fiction?" Paddock laughed. "I'm not writing much fiction now," he replied. "The car belongs to Mrs. Helen Bruce, the wittiest hostess in San Marco." He came closer. "My boy," he confided, "I have struck something essentially soft. Some time soon, in a room with all the doors and windows closed and the weather-strips in place, I'll whisper it to you. I've been dying to tell somebody." "And the car--" "Part of the graft, Dick. Here comes Mrs. Bruce now. Did I mention she was the wittiest--of course I did. Want to meet her? Well, later then. You're at the Pax, I suppose. See you there." Mr. Minot moved on from the imminence of Mrs. Bruce. A moment later the limousine sped by him. One seat was generously filled by the wittiest hostess in San Marco. Seated opposite her, Mr. Paddock waved an airy hand. Life had always been the gayest of jokes to Mr. Paddock. Life was at the moment quite the opposite to Dick Minot. He devoted the next hour to sad introspection in the lobby. It was not until he was on his way in to dinner that he again saw Cynthia Meyrick. Then, just outside the dining-room door, he encountered her, still all in white, lovelier than ever, in her cheek a flush of excitement no doubt put there by the most important luncheon of her life. He waited for her to recognize him--and he did not wait in vain. "Ah, Mr.--" "Minot." "Of course. In the hurry of this noon I quite overlooked an introduction. I am--" "Miss Cynthia Meyrick. I happen to know because I met his lordship in New York. May I ask--was the luncheon--" "Quite without a flaw. So you know Lord Harrowby?" "Er--slightly. May I offer my very best wishes?" "So good of you."