“Damme!” he sputtered. “Do you mean to say--Oh--I see! Yes! I am the secretary of the Duke of Connaught. The jewels are for his Royal Highness.” The change was instantaneous and magical. They all understood now, and forgave. There wasn't a clerk in the store who did not stare with unchecked interest at the fur-coated member of the royal party, concerning which the newspapers were printing columns and columns. The man opened his coat, took a card from a Russia-leather case, which he gave to Mr. Boon. “Colonel the Honorable H. C. Lowther, K.C.B.,” it read, “Private Secretary to H. R. H. the Duke of Connaught.” “Colonel Lowther,” said Mr. Boon, in a voice from which all the icicles had melted and turned into warm honey, “I regret exceedingly that you have had to wait. Had I known you were here, or if you had only mentioned who you were--” “Exactly so. Yes! And now I'll have a few words with you in private, Boon.” The colonel could not know that Mr. Boon was not a misterless Bond Street tradesman, but a millionaire expert in gems and human vanity. So Boon forgave the omission of “Mr.” and magnanimously said, “This way, Colonel Lowther, please!” In the office Mr. Boon opened a box of his good cigars--and they were very good, indeed--and held it toward the colonel, who took one with his gloved hands, lit it at the flame of the match which Mr. Boon himself held for him, and puffed away, with never a “Thank you.” Again Mr. Boon was magnanimous. Colonel Lowther wiggled his neck as if his collar were uncomfortably tight, and then shot his head forward with a motion that made the chin go up six inches--a nervous affliction that Mr. Boon politely ignored by looking exaggeratedly attentive. “His Royal Highness wishes to leave some remembrances to gentlemen he has met, you know--chairmen of committees and presidents of clubs, and others who have been very nice to him. At home he would have given them snuff-boxes or cigarette-cases, with his arms on them; but there won't be time to engrave them, so he will give scarf-pins.” He paused, puffed at his cigar, and cleared his neck of the constricting collar. “I understand,” Mr. Boon assured him, deferentially. “And the duchess will give rings and--ah--lorgnette-chains--trinkets--ah--you know. Everybody in New York has been so kind to the party. 'Pon my honor, Boon, I really think Americans are keener for royalty than the British. I do! What?” “Blood,” observed Mr. Boon, with the impressive sententiousness of a man inventing a proverb, “is thicker than water!” “Eh? What? Oh! I see! Yes! Quite so!” “Our people,” pursued the encouraged Mr. Boon, “have always thought a great deal of the English--er--British royal family.” “Oh, indeed! Now, Boon, I didn't think you showed great affection for George III! What?” Mr. Boon blushed to think of Bunker Hill. His daughter was a D. A. R., too! He hastened to change the subject.