To her own amazement, she took her place beside him and descended the steps, her cheeks crimson. At the bottom, she cast a wild, anxious look up and down the street, and then over her shoulder at the second-story windows of the house they had just left. Queer little shivers were running all over her. She couldn't account for them,--any more than she could account for the astonishing performance to which she was now committed: that of walking jauntily through a fashionable cross-town street in the friendliest, most intimate manner with her mother-in-law's discharged chauffeur! Fifth Avenue but a few steps away, with all its mid-morning activities to be encountered! What on earth possessed her! "Come along, then," he had said with all the calmness of an old and privileged acquaintance! And obediently she had "come along"! His chin was up, his eyes were sparkling; his body was bent forward slightly at the waist to co-ordinate with the somewhat pronounced action of his legs; his hat was slightly tilted and placed well back on his head; his gay little walking-stick described graceful revolutions. She was suddenly aware of a new thrill--one of satisfaction. As she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her face cleared. Instinctively she grasped the truth. Whatever he may have been yesterday, he was quite another person today,--and it was a pleasure to be seen with him! She lengthened her stride, and held up her head. Her red lips parted in a dazzling smile. "I suppose it is useless to ask you to change your mind,--Trotter," she said, purposely hesitating over the name. "Quite," said he, smiling into her eyes. She was momentarily disconcerted. She found it more difficult than she had thought to look into his eyes. "Why do you call yourself Trotter?" she asked, after a moment. "I haven't the remotest idea," he said. "It came to me quite unexpectedly." "It isn't a pretty name," she observed. "Couldn't you have done better?" "I daresay I might have called myself Marjoribanks with perfect propriety," said he. "Or Plantagenet, or Cholmondeley. But it would have been quite a waste of time, don't you think?" "Would you mind telling me who you really are?" "You wouldn't believe me." "Oh, yes, I would. I could believe anything of you." "Well, I am the Prince of Wales." She flushed. "I believe you," she said. "Forgive my impertinence, Prince." "Forgive mine, Mrs. Millidew," he said soberly. "My name is Temple, Eric Temple. That does not convey anything to you, of course." "It conveys something vastly more interesting than Trotter,--Thomas Trotter."