“If it hadn’t been for one thing,” the boy went on, “I would have thought of nothing else but you, every minute I’ve been away.” “Mr. Ruggles?” suggested the duchess. “No, the Gaiety girl, Letty Lane. You know I told you in the box that she was from my town.” The young man, who had flown back to Osdene Park in answer to a telegram, began to take his companion into his confidence. “I knew that girl,” Dan said, “when she wasn’t more than fourteen. She sold me soda-water over the drug store counter. I always thought she was bully, bright as a button and pretty as a peach. Once, I remember, I took six chocolate sodas in one day just to go in and see her. I had an awful time. I most died of that jag, and yet,” he said meditatively, “I don’t think I ever spoke three words to her, just said ‘sarsaparilla’ or ‘chocolate’ or whatever it might happen to be. Ever since that day, ever since that jag,” he said with feeling, “I couldn’t _see_ a stick of chocolate and keep my head up! Well,” went on the boy, “Sarah Towney sang in our church for a missionary meeting, and I was there. I can remember the song she sang.” He spoke with unconscious ardor. He didn’t refer to the hymn, however, but went on with his narrative. “She disappeared from Blairtown. I never had a peep at her again until the other night. Gosh!” he said fervently, “when I saw her there on the stage, why, I felt as though cold water was running up and down my spine.” The duchess, as a rule, was amused by his slang. It seemed vulgar to her now. “Heavens,” she drawled, “you are really too dreadful!” He didn’t seem to hear her. “She’s turned out a perfect wonder, hasn’t she? A world-beater! Why, everybody tells me there isn’t another like her in her specialty. Of course I have heard of Letty Lane, but I haven’t been out to things since I went in mourning, and I’ve never run up against her.” “Really,” drawled the duchess again, “now that you have ‘run up against her’ what are you going to do with her? Marry her?” His honest stare was the greatest relief she had ever experienced. He repeated bluntly: “Marry her? Why the dickens should I?” “You seem absorbed in her.” He agreed with her. “I am. I think she’s great, don’t you?” “Hardly.” But the cold voice of the duchess did not chill him. “Simply great,” he continued, “and I’m sorry for her down to the ground. That is what is the matter. Didn’t you notice her when she came into the Carlton that night?” “What of it, silly? I thought she looked as thin as a shad in that black dress, and the way Poniotowsky goes about with her proves what an ass he is.” “Well, I hate him,” Blair simply stated; “I would wring his neck for twenty cents. But she’s very ill; that is what is the matter with her.”