And they knew that social embarrassment would almost inevitably follow if Zalithea were urged against her will. This knowledge had come as result of a disaster at the apartment of a prominent member of Washington’s diplomatic set who was entertaining in New York. Zalithea, reluctantly, had agreed to go. She had looked radiant. She was the sensation of a brilliant gathering. Then, Mrs. Uffington had arrived. As that gushing lady crossed with extended hands: “Bahree,” Zalithea had said, in her imperious way. Ignoring Mrs. Uffington, ignoring everybody, she had glided, a slender, stately figure, out of the room--and out of the building! It was a moment which Barry sometimes lived over again, memory of which brought cold perspiration. He had been furiously angry with her, and had been unable to conceal his anger. Unmoved, apparently, as an ivory statue, she had sat beside him in the car, while he had poured out the vials of his wrath. Perhaps she had understood, perhaps she had not. But when he saw her face, as they alighted before the door of his home, he would have given much for power to recall those words. Her beautiful eyes were glassy, like those of a tortured animal. Then, as she turned to run up the steps, he saw the long-repressed tears gathering under the dark fringe of her lashes.… She had refused to see him that night and for half of the next day. His father, and Aunt Micky, who had been left behind to face the appalling task of explaining, arrived later--and were denied admittance to Zalithea’s apartments! Danbazzar was summoned. Barry knew no sleep that night. He paced the big library, a man demented, knowing--if he had ever doubted it--that the happiness of this girl meant more to him than the opinion of every hostess in America; than any friendship; than anything in life. Reconciliation had come. But they had all learned their lessons. Invitations to the Cumberland home were eagerly sought for. It came to be regarded as a sort of mark of distinction to be honestly able to say that Princess Zalithea had consented to know one. What guided her in her selections and rejections, John Cumberland could never make out. Slowly, provokingly slowly, Zalithea was learning English. There was no lack of voluntary (male) tutors. In fact, by painful degrees, the fact dawned upon Barry that he had to count not only with that intangible dread, his knowledge of the true age of Zalithea, but also with more than one rival. “There’s something I want to know, young Cumberland,” said Aunt Micky on a certain afternoon when Barry was lounging in her private sanctum. This room was notable chiefly because of the fact that it differed from every other in the house; it contained not a single Egyptian relic. “What’s that, Micky?” Aunt Micky puffed reflectively at her cigarette; then: “When is Zalithea going home?” she inquired. “What!” Barry sat up with a jerk.