Dunbarton gave a groan as of agony suppressed, and Morewood's face might have been in color a fragment of the sacerdotal robe of Ra. "Oh!" moaned the painter, "if I could only howl!" "Don't mind him, please!" the other man pleaded. "You see, I, too, had used a film, and we were rather interested in seeing how it came out." "Oh, but yours came out beautifully!" she reassured him. "My Cousin Jack developed it after lunch. That's the way we discovered the mistake, and here it is. We made up our minds that you must be at least seventy-five years old to want to photograph a hideous mummy-case." It was then that Dunbarton mastered himself and became once more conscious of the duties of hospitality. "A thousand pardons!" he protested, "for not offering you a seat. This is a painter's workshop, as you see, and therefore public property in a way. Might I suggest a cup of tea? It won't take me a minute to telephone for a chaperon." The priestess was graciously pleased to laugh. "I should like tea," she said, with an approving glance about the room, flooded with the last of a long sunset; "but, if you don't mind, I detest chaperons. You see, I'm from Oklahoma." There was an instant's hesitation, then: "My friend, Mr. Morewood," remarked the painter, "has just been telling me the strangest story in the world. Perhaps you can induce him to repeat it for you." He laughed a mocking laugh and turned to busy himself with the silver tea-service standing on an Adams table, while Morewood drew forward a low chair for the lady. "Is your story romantic?" she asked, as she settled her poppy-colored ruffles; "has it a heroine?" "Oh, yes, indeed," he answered, by no means including Dunbarton in the confidence. "No less a personage than the priestess of Amen Ra." She looked at him suspiciously, while the veriest suggestion of a blush suffused her cheek. "Is there anything about photographs in it?" she demanded, regarding him defiantly. "Yes," he replied, "there is; a lot!" "Then I don't care to hear it, for it's certain to be stupid," she protested, pouting. "It is," he told her, frankly; "and I shall not inflict it on you now. But some day, when we know each other better." "We start for Boston to-morrow morning early," she interrupted; "and from there we go to Bar Harbor for mamma's hay fever. We're staying at the Waldorf." "Then I shall return the camera this evening," said Morewood. "If you do," she said, "my Cousin Jack will be very glad to talk photographs with you." "How old is your Cousin Jack?" Morewood demanded. "Twelve," replied the lady, with just the shadow of a smile. THE GIRL FROM MERCURY AN INTERPLANETARY LOVE STORY