“You mentioned,” he said, as though he were reading aloud from one of the sacred books, “some pearl necklaces. At least, I think you did.” He put on the tradesman's listening look in advance. It is the look that courtiers assume when they listen to his Majesty excitedly telling how once, on a hunting-trip, he almost dressed himself. “Oh yes! The pearls are for the Princess Patricia. A necklace to cost not over ten thousand. You see, the duke is not one of your Pittsburg millionaires. He's not what you'd call rich, in America!” He smiled, democratically, as a man always does when he is pleased with his own wit. Mr. Boon smiled uncertainly. “You can't, of course,” he said, regretfully, “do much with ten thousand dollars.” “Not dollars--pounds! Perhaps we may go up to fifteen thousand; but his Highness would prefer to keep at about ten thousand pounds. That's fifty thousand dollars.” “I am sure we can please his Highness,” said Mr. Boon, with impressive confidence. There fleeted across his mind the vision of the tremendous value of the advertisement which the royal patronage would give him. The papers were full of the doings of the distinguished visitors. He himself on his way to the office had been guilty of the pardonable curiosity which the lower classes call rubber-necking; and he had even discussed--in common with 89,999,999 fellow-Americans--the personal pulchritude of the royal ladies. Usually democracy is enabled to apologize to itself for its undemocratic interest in feminine royalty by saying, “She isn't at all goodlooking.” That excuse, however, did not serve in this instance. The Princess Patricia was the most popular girl in New York--with the classes because she was the princess, and with the masses because she was so pretty! And to think of selling pearls to her! He closed his eyes and ecstatically read what the papers would print about the sale! He heard himself saying to Mrs. Carmpick, of Pittsburg: “This necklace is handsomer than the one we sold to Princess Patricia!” He heard the rattle in the throats of Johnson & Pierce, of J. Storrs' Sons, of the sixteen partners of Goffony's, dying from apoplexy superinduced by envy, or from starvation following the loss of all the swell customers! “Ah, you realize, of course, Boon, that his Royal Highness's patronage is worth many thousands to your firm. What?” The colonel's eyes, Mr. Boon thought, were cold and greedy, as befitted a common grafter. Mr. Boon resented this, having himself been caught red-handed getting something for nothing. If he had to pay a commission--“We appreciate the honor, of course, Colonel Lowther,” he said, deferentially--and non-committally. “Quite so! You ought to, considering how the newspapers will mention your shop.” “I may suggest, Colonel Lowther, that our firm's reputation--”