had deprived him of, had exchanged for a bit of cardboard and a greenback.  The last named, reinforced by the small amount Mr. Heatherbloom had left upon reaching the Nevski and of which the prince had not deprived him, would relieve his necessities for the moment.  After that?  Well, he would take up the problem presently; he had no time for it now.  This day, at least, should be consecrated to Betty Dalrymple.

He had an inkling that on the morrow he would see less of her; the girl’s story would get around.  The American consul would call and tender his services.  The governor, too, Sir Charles Somebody, whose palatial residence looked down on the town from the side of the hill, might be expected to become officially and paternally interested.  The little cable office, despite rules and regulations, could not long retain its prodigious secret; moreover Mr. Heatherbloom, in an absent-minded moment, had inscribed Miss Dalrymple’s name on the register, or visitors’ book.  He recalled how the eyes of the old mammy, the proprietress, had fairly rolled with curiosity.  No; he would not be permitted long to have her to himself, he ruminated; better make the most of his opportunity now.  Besides, his present monetary position forbade his presence for more than a day or two at the “best hotel”; its rates were for him distinctly prohibitive.  The exigencies of financial differences would soon separate them; she could draw on Miss Van Rolsen for thousands; he had but five dollars and twelve cents—­or was it thirteen?—­to his name.

He kept these reflections, however, to himself and continued to bask in the sunshine of a fool’s paradise.  They rode, walked and explored.  They went to the fruit and the flower market.  He bought her a great bunch of flowers, and she not only took it but wore it.  For a time he stepped on air; his flowers constituted a fine splash of color on the girl’s gown.  Her heart beat beneath them; the thought was as wine.

“Shall we?” They had partaken of tea (or nectar) in a small shop, and now she paused before that most modern manifestation of a restless civilization, a begilded, over-ornamented nickelodeon.  “Think of finding one of them way off here!  Just as at home!”

“More extraordinary your wanting to go in!” he laughed.

“Why not?  It will be an experience.”

They entered; the place was half filled and they took seats toward the back.  There were films, and songs of the usual character; it was very gay.  Gurgles of merriment from Creoles and darkies were heard on all sides.  They, too, yielded freely, gladly to its infection.  Happy Creoles! happy darkies! happy Betty Dalrymple and Horatio Heatherbloom—­heiress and outcast!  There is a democracy in laughter; yon darky smiled at Miss Dalrymple, while Mr. Heatherbloom laughed with her, with them, and the world.  For was she not near, right there by his side?  To Mr. Heatherbloom the tinsel palace had become a temple of felicity and wonder.  Suddenly he started and his face changed.