“Oh, pickles!” said Mrs. Plumston.  “I have heard of romantic young women jumping overboard and taking poison on account of rich young men, but I never heard of a girl’s snuffing herself out so as to give her sister a chance to get married.  The thing for you to do at a time like this, when you find yourself in a tangle, is to think of yourself and your own chances for happiness.  Father and Jeneka will take care of themselves.  They are popular and beloved characters here in Morovenia.  They are not taking you into consideration except as you seem to interfere with their selfish plans.  I have made it a rule not to work out my neighbor’s destiny.”

“What can I do?” asked Kalora, seemingly impressed by the earnestness of the consul’s wife.

“Leave Morovenia.  Keep at your father until he consents to your going.  Here you are despised and ridiculed—­a victim of heathen prejudice left over from the Dark Ages.  Get away, even if you have to walk, and take my word for it, the moment you leave Morovenia you will be a very beautiful girl; not a merely attractive young person, but what we would call at home a radiant beauty—­the oriental type, you know.  And as a personal favor to me, don’t be fat.”

“No fear of that,” said the girl with a melancholy attempt at a smile.  “But you must go and join the others.  Do, please.  I am now in disgrace, and you may compromise your social standing in Morovenia if you remain here and talk to me.”

“I dare say I should go.  I have a husband who requires as much attention and scolding as a four-year-old.  Sometimes I almost favor the oriental system of the husband’s directing the wife.  Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

Mrs. Plumston gave her a kiss and a friendly little pat on the arm, and walked away toward the stables with a swinging, heel-and-toe, masculine stride.

Kalora had the whole garden to herself.  She sat squared up in the wicker chair with her fists clenched, looking straight ahead, trying in vain to think of some plan for avenging herself upon the whole race of bachelors.  As she sat thus some one spoke to her.

“How do you do?” came a voice.

She was startled and looked about, but saw no one.

“Up here!” came the voice again.

She looked up and saw a young man on the top of the wall, his legs hanging over.  Evidently he had climbed up from the outside, and yet Kalora had never suspected that the wall could be climbed.

[Illustration:  “Up here!” came the voice again]

He was smoothly shaven, with blond hair almost ripe enough to be auburn; he wore a gray suit of rather loose and careless material, a belt, but no waistcoat; his trousers were reefed up from a pair of saddle-brown shoes, and the silk band around his small straw hat was tricolored.  In his hand was a paper-covered book.  Swung over his shoulder was a camera in a leather case.  He sat there on top of the high wall and gazed at Kalora with a grinning interest, and she, forgetting that she was unveiled and clad only in the simple garments which had horrified the best people of Morovenia, gazed back at him, for he was the first of the kind she had seen.