conspirator, a fugitive from justice, a mendicant in gilded guise, or a wretched fortune-hunter. I don’t blame the people over there for seeing an intriguer and a scoundrel under every coronet that submits itself to their criticism--perhaps they should not receive them either enthusiastically or cringingly; not, at all events, before they have made a few inquiries as to their wearer’s particular brand of indignity--for, when one comes to think of the needy and abject individuals who are continually “crossing the Pond,” as the English say, to offer to the highest female bidder imitation names, bogus titles, or genuine ones so tarnished as to have become unrecognizable, how can one feel surprise at the variegated denunciations which transatlantic invaders of our shores indulge in? Forgive this vacuous and interminable missive. I am alone, sad, bad-tempered, and altogether uninhabitable. Indeed, it would have been far simpler for me to tell you at the outset, like a man, that I am yearning for a home--anybody’s, since my own is destroyed, and sign myself, Your affectionate Basil. Régis had not hesitated an instant. To his practical sense--he had a good deal of that, and very well developed--it appeared only too clearly that, unless something rather drastic was done, Basil would gradually let himself drift into positive melancholia, and his warm heart revolted at the thought; so without losing a minute, he had written and cabled to his cousin to come at once; ridiculed his distaste for seeing Piotr, whom he described as a most delicious boy and a true Palitzin; accused Basil squarely and fairly of giving way too much to his morbid feelings; and had, indeed, made such good use of an eloquence he rarely lacked when both his brain and his heart were in accord, that a cable from Gibraltar had finally announced to him the arrival of Basil in a few days. “We will cure him, _mon Chevalier_,” “Antinoüs” said to his daughter when announcing the news to her. “These fancies of his are simply absurd--there’s no other word for it.” Marguerite looked her father suddenly straight in the eyes. She was sitting on the window-sill of his study, while he stood, a cigarette between his teeth, both hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets, looking out at the glancing fountain with its quaint presentations of kneeling monks and curious, unnatural stone birds--a masterpiece from the same chisel as had carved the unique doorway of the Castle chapel. “Papa,” said the “Gamin,” gravely, “you don’t believe it, I know, but I am no longer a little girl. Don’t you think you could tell me why Basil has ceased to care for Piotr? There is some reason for it, some very serious reason, for he is the last man on earth one could accuse of caprice--a feminine defect, besides! Why can’t you tell me what makes him feel as he does?”