“You always were the best of fellows, Majesty. And if you really care—if you really want to help me I’ll be only too glad to accept. It will be fine. Florence will go wild. And that Greaser won’t harass me any more. Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow will be spending your money; I may as well take a little before he gets it all,” he finished, jokingly. “What do you know about me?” she asked, lightly. “More than you think. Even if we are lost out here in the woolly West we get news. Everybody knows about Anglesbury. And that Dago duke who chased you all over Europe, that Lord Castleton has the running now and seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?” Madeline detected a hint that suggested scorn in his gay speech. And deep in his searching glance she saw a flame. She became thoughtful. She had forgotten Castleton, New York, society. “Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I don’t believe any titled gentleman will ever spend my money, as you elegantly express it.” “I don’t care for that. It’s you!” he cried, passionately, and he grasped her with a violence that startled her. He was white; his eyes were now like fire. “You are so splendid—so wonderful. People called you the American Beauty, but you’re more than that. You’re the American Girl! Majesty, marry no man unless you love him, and love an American. Stay away from Europe long enough to learn to know the men—the real men of your own country.” “Alfred, I’m afraid there are not always real men and real love for American girls in international marriages. But Helen knows this. It’ll be her choice. She’ll be miserable if she marries Anglesbury.” “It’ll serve her just right,” declared her brother. “Helen was always crazy for glitter, adulation, fame. I’ll gamble she never saw more of Anglesbury than the gold and ribbons on his breast.” “I am sorry. Anglesbury is a gentleman; but it is the money he wanted, I think. Alfred, tell me how you came to know about me, ’way out here? You may be assured I was astonished to find that Miss Kingsley knew me as Majesty Hammond.” “I imagine it was a surprise,” he replied, with a laugh, “I told Florence about you—gave her a picture of you. And, of course, being a woman, she showed the picture and talked. She’s in love with you. Then, my dear sister, we do get New York papers out here occasionally, and we can see and read. You may not be aware that you and your society friends are objects of intense interest in the U. S. in general, and the West in particular. The papers are full of you, and perhaps a lot of things you never did.” “That Mr. Stewart knew, too. He said, ‘You’re not Majesty Hammond?’”