"I let Mrs. Windpeg tell Jones all about me--imaginatively," she went on with a sad smile; "I told her to call me Harper, because _Harper's Magazine_ came into my mind. But it was Jones who seated us together. I will believe that you took a genuine liking to me; still, it was a foolish freak on both sides, and we must both forget it as soon as possible." "I can never forget it!" I said passionately; "I love you; and I dare to think you care for me, though while you fancied I was a peer you stifled the feeling that had grown up despite you. Believe me, I understand the purity of your motives, and love you the more for them." She shook her head. "Good-bye!" she faltered. "I will not say 'good-bye'! I have little to offer you, but it includes a heart that is aching for you. There is no reason now why we should part." Her lips were white in the moonlight. "I never said I loved you," she murmured. "Not in so many words," I admitted; "but why did you let me call you Ethelberta?" I asked passionately. "Because it is not my name," she answered; and a ghost of the old gay smile lit up the lovely features. I stood for a moment dumbfounded. Unconsciously we had come to a standstill under the window of the dining-room. She took advantage of my consternation to say more lightly: "Come, let us part friends." I dimly understood that, in some subtle way I was too coarse to comprehend, she was ashamed of the part she had played throughout, that she would punish herself by renunciation. I knew not what to say; I saw the happiness of my life fading before my eyes. She held out her hand for the last time and I clasped it mechanically. So we stood, silent. "What does that matter, Mrs. Windpeg? You're a real lady, that's enough for me. It wasn't because I thought you had money that I ventured to raise my eyes to you." We started. It was the voice of Jones. Mrs. Windpeg had evidently lingered too long over her dessert. "But I tell you I have nothing at all--nothing!" came the voice of Mrs. Windpeg. "I don't want it. You see, I'm like you--not what I seem. This place belongs to me, only I was born and bred a waiter in this very hotel, and I don't see why the 'ouse shouldn't profit by the tips instead of a stranger. My son does the show part; but he ain't fit for anything but reading Dickens and other low-class writers, and I feel the want of a real lady, knowing the ways of the aristocrats. What with Lord Porchester and Lord Everett, it looks as if this hotel is going to be fashionable and I know there's lots of 'igh-class wrinkles I ain't picked up yet. Only lately I was flummoxed by a gent asking for a liqueur I'd never 'eard of. You're mixed up with tip-top swells; I loved you from the moment I saw you fold your first _serviette_. I'm a widower, you're a widow. Let bygones be bygones. Why shouldn't we make a match of it?" We looked at each other and laughed; false subtleties were swept away by a wave of mutual merriment.