Montague had to meet her advances; so had not much time to speculate as to what the term “side partner” might be supposed to convey. Betty was a radiant little creature, dressed in a robe of deep crimson, made of some soft and filmy and complicated material; there was a crimson rose in her hair, and a living glow of crimson in her cheeks. She was bright and quick, like a butterfly, full of strange whims and impulses; mischievous lights gleamed in her eyes and mischievous smiles played about her adorable little cherry lips. Some strange perfume haunted the filmy dress, and completed the bewilderment of the intended victim. “I have a letter of introduction to a Mr. Wyman in New York,” said Montague. “Perhaps he is a relative of yours.” “Is he a railroad president?” asked she; and when he answered in the affirmative, “Is he a railroad king?” she whispered, in a mocking, awe-stricken voice, “Is he rich—oh, rich as Solomon—and is he a terrible man, who eats people alive all the time?” “Yes,” said Montague—“that must be the one.” “Well,” said Betty, “he has done me the honour to be my granddaddy; but don’t you take any letter of introduction to him.” “Why not?” asked he, perplexed. “Because he’ll eat _you_,” said the girl. “He hates Ollie.” “Dear me,” said the other; and the girl asked, “Do you mean that the boy hasn’t said a word about me?” “No,” said Montague—“I suppose he left it for you to do.” “Well,” said Betty, “it’s like a fairy story. Do you ever read fairy stories? In this story there was a princess—oh, the most beautiful princess! Do you understand?” “Yes,” said Montague. “She wore a red rose in her hair.” “And then,” said the girl, “there was a young courtier—very handsome and gay; and they fell in love with each other. But the terrible old king—he wanted his daughter to wait a while, until he got through conquering his enemies, so that he might have time to pick out some prince or other, or maybe some ogre who was wasting his lands—do you follow me?” “Perfectly,” said he. “And then did the beautiful princess pine away?” “Um—no,” said Betty, pursing her lips. “But she had to dance terribly hard to keep from thinking about herself.” Then she laughed, and exclaimed, “Dear me, we are getting poetical!” And next, looking sober again, “Do you know, I was half afraid to talk to you. Ollie tells me you’re terribly serious. Are you?” “I don’t know,” said Montague—but she broke in with a laugh, “We were talking about you at dinner last night. They had some whipped cream done up in funny little curliques, and Ollie said, ‘Now, if my brother Allan were here, he’d be thinking about the man who fixed this cream, and how long it took him, and how he might have been reading ‘The Simple Life.’ Is that true?” “It involves a question of literary criticism”—said Montague.