Possibly some of the cautious young noblemen would talk with Kalora, and, finding her bright-eyed, witty, ready in conversation and with enthusiasm for big and masculine undertakings, be attracted to her.  At the same time her father decided that there was no reason why her pitiful shortage of avoirdupois should be candidly advertised.  Even at a garden-party, where the guests of honor are two English subjects, the young women would be required to veil themselves up to the nose-tips and hide themselves within a veritable cocoon of soft garments.

The invitations went out and the acceptances came in.  The English were flattered.  Count Malagaski was buoyed by new hopes and the daughters were in a day-and-night flutter, for neither of them had ever come within speaking distance of the real young man of their dreams.

On the morning of the day set apart for the debut of Kalora, Count Selim went to her apartments, and, with a rather shamefaced reluctance, gave his directions.

“Kalora, I have done all for you that any father could do for a beloved child and you are still thin,” he began.

“Slender,” she corrected.

“Thin,” he repeated.  “Thin as a crane—­a mere shadow of a girl—­and, what is more deplorable, apparently indifferent to the sorrow that you are causing those most interested in your welfare.”

“I am not indifferent, father.  If, merely by wishing, I could be fat, I would make myself the shape of the French balloon that floated over Morovenia last week.  I would be so roly-poly that, when it came time for me to go and meet our guests this afternoon, I would roll into their presence as if I were a tennis-ball.”

“Why should you know anything about tennis-balls?  You, of all the young women in Morovenia, seem to be the only one with a fondness for athletics.  I have heard that in Great Britain, where the women ride and play rude, manly games, there has been developed a breed as hard as flint—­Allah preserve me from such women!”

“Father, you are leading up to something.  What is it you wish to say?”

“This.  You have persistently disobeyed me and made me very unhappy, but to-day I must ask you to respect my wishes.  Do not proclaim to our guests the sad truth regarding your deficiency.”

“Good!” she exclaimed gaily.  “I shall wear a robe the size of an Arabian tent, and I shall surround myself with soft pillows, and I shall wheeze when I breathe and—­who knows?—­perhaps some dark-eyed young man worth a million piasters will be deceived, and will come to you to-morrow, and buy me—­buy me at so much a pound.”  And she shrieked with laughter.

“Stop!” commanded her father.  “You refuse to take me seriously, but I am in earnest.  Do not humiliate me in the presence of my friends this afternoon.”

Then he hurried away before she had time to make further sport of him.

To Count Selim Malagaski this garden-party was the frantic effort of a sinking man.  To Kalora it was a lark.  From the pure fun of the thing, she obeyed her father.  She wore four heavily quilted and padded gowns, one over another, and when she and Jeneka were summoned from their apartments and went out to meet the company under the trees, they were almost like twins and both duck-like in general outlines.