“Aren’t they wonderful?” asked Senorita Rodriguez with the quick, bubbling enthusiasm of her race.

“What?” asked Mr. Grimm.

“Her eyes,” was the reply.  “Every person has one dominant feature—­with Miss Thorne it is her eyes.”

“Miss Thorne?” Mr. Grimm repeated.

“Haven’t you met her?” the senorita went on.  “Miss Isabel Thorne?  She only arrived a few days ago—­the night of the state ball.  She’s my guest at the legation.  When an opportunity comes I shall present you to her.”

She ran on, about other things, with only an occasional remark from Mr. Grimm, who was thoughtfully nursing his knee.  Somewhere through the chatter and effervescent gaiety, mingling with the sound of the pulsing music, he had a singular impression of a rhythmical beat, an indistinct tattoo, noticeable, perhaps, only because of its monotony.  After a moment he shot a quick glance at Miss Thorne and understood; it was the tapping of an exquisitely wrought ivory fan against one of her tapering, gloved fingers.  She was talking and smiling.

“Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!” said the fan.

Mr. Grimm twisted around in his seat and regaled his listless eyes with a long stare into the senorita’s pretty face.  Behind the careless ease of repose he was mechanically isolating the faint clatter of the fan.

“Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!”

“Did any one ever accuse you of staring, Mr. Grimm?” demanded the senorita banteringly.

For an instant Mr. Grimm continued to stare, and then his listless eyes swept the ball-room, pausing involuntarily at the scarlet splendor of the minister from Turkey.

“I beg your pardon,” he apologized contritely.  There was a pause.  “The minister from Turkey looks like a barn on fire, doesn’t he?”

Senorita Rodriguez laughed, and Mr. Grimm glanced idly toward Miss Thorne.  She was still talking, her face alive with interest; and the fan was still tapping rhythmically, steadily, now on the arm of her chair.

“Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!”

“Pretty women who don’t want to be stared at should go with their faces swathed,” Mr. Grimm suggested indolently.  “Haroun el Raschid there would agree with me on that point, I have no doubt.  What a shock he would get if he should happen up at Atlantic City for a week-end in August!”

“Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!  Dot-dash-dot!”

Mr. Grimm read it with perfect understanding; it was “F—­F—­F” in the Morse code, the call of one operator to another.  Was it accident?  Mr. Grimm wondered, and wondering he went on talking lazily: 

“Curious, isn’t it, the smaller the nation the more color it crowds into the uniforms of its diplomatists?  The British ambassador, you will observe, is clothed sanely and modestly, as befits the representative of a great nation; but coming on down by way of Spain and Italy, they get more gorgeous.  However, I dare say as stout a heart beats beneath a sky-blue sash as behind the unembellished black of evening dress.”