"Say, doesn't that sound the queerest ever? A daisy little girl like you talking about some other girl as her 'mistress'!" rejoined my companion in a wondering tone. "Why, d'you know? When I saw you standing there in the sitting-room, in your black dress and that cute little apron and cap, I said to myself: 'If this isn't the image of some Society girl of the English upper class playing the Pretty Domestic part in some private theatricals where they rush you a quarter's salary, I guess, for half a look and a programme!' I said, if you'll pardon me: 'It's just the accent, just the look, just the manner.'" "Oh!" I said, rather vexed. I was annoyed that he should think there was any trace of "acting" about my appearance. I thought I'd had the art that conceals Art. I thought I'd come to look such an irreproachable lady's-maid. "Just typically the English Young Lady of the Upper Classes," pronounced this surprising young American, meditatively walking along by my side on the asphalt paths of the Embankment Gardens. "As typical as the Westminster Abbey, or those tea-shops.... Real sweet-looking, real refined-looking, if I may say so. But cold! Cold and stiff! 'Do not dare to approach me, for all my family were here dying of old age when William the Conqueror landed on these shores.' That's the way you'd impress one, Miss Smith. 'Look through my trunks?'" Here he adopted an extraordinary voice that I suppose was intended for an imitation of my own tones. Then he pulled himself up and said gravely: "You'll pardon me if I'm too frank. But I'm always outspoken. It's my nature. I'm interested in types. I was interested in yours. Noo to me. Quite noo. The young lady that looks as if she ought to be standing to have her portrait painted on the grey-stone steps of some big English country house--the young lady that turns out to be paid maid to my own cousin! A noo thing." "Really!" I said gravely. I couldn't help feeling amused at his puzzled face. We turned again down the asphalt path between the flower-beds of those gardens that are overshadowed by the big hotel. On a bench I caught sight again of the quiet figure that I had noticed on the other side of the Strand. It was the Scotland Yard man. He seemed to be reading an evening paper. But I felt that he was watching, watching.... I didn't mind; even if he did think he was watching some one who knew what had become of the Rattheimer ruby! I felt something comforting and trustworthy in the presence of this other young man; this peculiar cousin of Million's, from whom one heard, quite unresentfully, remarks that one would not forgive in an Englishman, for instance Mr. Brace. Not that Mr. Brace would ever venture on such personalities ... the Honourable Jim now.... Yes, but he's a Celt. A Celt is a person who takes, but cannot give, offence. Most unfair, of course.