Moreover, she was piqued. For four days had passed and the recluse had not returned her call. True, there had come to her hotel a wicker full of superb wild tree blooms, and, again, a tiny box, cunning in workmanship of scented wood, containing what at first glance she had taken to be a jewel, until she saw that it was a tiny butterfly with opalescent wings, mounted on a silver wire. But with them had come no word or token of identification. Perhaps they weren’t from the queer and remote person at all. Very likely Mr. Raimonda had sent them; or Fitzhugh Carroll was adding secret attention to his open homage; or they might even be a further peace offering from the Hochwald secretary. That occasionally too festive diplomat had, indeed, made amends both profound and, evidently, sincere. Soliciting the kind offices of both Sherwen and Raimonda, he had presented himself, under their escort, stiff and perspiring in his full official regalia, before Mr. Brewster; then before his daughter, whose solemnity, presently breaking down before his painfully rehearsed English, dissolved in fluent French, setting him at ease and making him her slave. Poor penitent Von Plaanden even apologized to Carroll, fortunately not having heard of the American’s threat, and made a most favorable impression upon that precisian. “Intoxicated, he may be a rough, Miss Polly,” Carroll confided to the girl. “But sober, the man is a gentleman. He feels very badly about the whole affair. Offered to your father to report it all through official channels and attach his resignation.” “Not for worlds!” cried Miss Polly. “The poor man was half asleep. And Mr. Bee—Mr. Perkins _did_ jog him rather sharply.” “Yes. Von Plaanden asked my advice as an American about his attitude toward Cluff and Perkins.” “I hope you told him to let the whole thing drop.” “Exactly what I did. I explained about Cluff; that he was a very good fellow, but of a different class, and probably wouldn’t give the thing another thought.” “And Mr. Perkins?” “Von Plaanden wanted to challenge him, if he could find him. I suggested that he leave me to deal with Mr. Perkins. After some discussion, he agreed.” “Oh! And what are you going to do with him?” “Find him first, if I can.” “I can tell you where.” Carroll stared at her, astonished. “But I don’t think I will.” “He announced his intention of keeping out of my way. The man has no sense of shame.” “You probably scared the poor lamb out of his wits, fire-eater that you are.” Carroll would have liked to think so, but an innate sense of justice beneath his crust of prejudice forbade him to accept this judgment. “The strange part of it is that he doesn’t impress me as being afraid. But there is certainly something very wrong with the fellow. A man who will deliberately desert a woman in distress”—Carroll’s manner expanded into the roundly rhetorical—“whatever else he may be, cannot be a gentleman.” “There might have been mitigating circumstances.”