She explained that she’d promised the Duchess to look up a friend who was ill—­a poor wretch who’d been sent to Cimiez for her lungs—­and that she must rush off at once, and would be back as soon as possible—­well, if not in an hour, then in two at latest.  She was full of compunction, but she knew Undine would forgive her, and find something amusing to fill up the time:  she advised her to go back and buy the black hat with the osprey, and try on the crepe de Chine they’d thought so smart:  for any one as good-looking as herself the woman would probably alter it for nothing; and they could meet again at the Palace Tea-Rooms at four.  She whirled away in a cloud of explanations, and Undine, left alone, sat down on the Promenade des Anglais.  She did not believe a word the Princess had said.  She had seen in a flash why she was being left, and why the plan had not been divulged to her before-hand; and she quivered with resentment and humiliation.  “That’s what she’s wanted me for...that’s why she made up to me.  She’s trying it to-day, and after this it’ll happen regularly...she’ll drag me over here every day or two...at least she thinks she will!”

A sincere disgust was Undine’s uppermost sensation.  She was as much ashamed as Mrs. Spragg might have been at finding herself used to screen a clandestine adventure.

“I’ll let her see...  I’ll make her understand,” she repeated angrily; and for a moment she was half-disposed to drive to the station and take the first train back.  But the sense of her precarious situation withheld her; and presently, with bitterness in her heart, she got up and began to stroll toward the shops.

To show that she was not a dupe, she arrived at the designated meeting-place nearly an hour later than the time appointed; but when she entered the Tea-Rooms the Princess was nowhere to be seen.  The rooms were crowded, and Undine was guided toward a small inner apartment where isolated couples were absorbing refreshments in an atmosphere of intimacy that made it seem incongruous to be alone.  She glanced about for a face she knew, but none was visible, and she was just giving up the search when she beheld Elmer Moffatt shouldering his way through the crowd.

The sight was so surprising that she sat gazing with unconscious fixity at the round black head and glossy reddish face which kept appearing and disappearing through the intervening jungle of aigrettes.  It was long since she had either heard of Moffatt or thought about him, and now, in her loneliness and exasperation, she took comfort in the sight of his confident capable face, and felt a longing to hear his voice and unbosom her woes to him.  She had half risen to attract his attention when she saw him turn back and make way for a companion, who was cautiously steering her huge feathered hat between the tea-tables.  The woman was of the vulgarest type; everything about her was cheap and gaudy.  But Moffatt was obviously elated:  he stood aside with a flourish to usher