In the room across the corridor, Fitzgerald was busy with a similar occupation.  The only real worry he had was the doubt of his luggage arriving before he left.  He had neither tennis clothes nor riding-habit, and these two pastimes were here among the regular events of the day.  The admiral both played and rode with his daughter.  She was altogether too charming.  Had she been an ordinary society girl, he would have stayed his welcome threadbare perhaps.  But, he repeated, she was not ordinary.  She had evidently been brought up with few illusions.  These she possessed would always be hers.

The world, in a kindly but mistaken spirit, fosters all sorts of beliefs in the head of a child.  True, it makes childhood happy, but it leaves its skin tender.  The moment a girl covers her slippers with skirts and winds her hair about the top of her curious young head, things begin to jar.  The men are not what she dreamed them to be, there never was such a person as Prince Charming; and the women embrace her—­if she is pretty and graceful—­with arms bristling with needles of envy and malice; and the rosal tint that she saw in the approach is nothing more or less than jaundice; and, one day disheartened and bewildered, she learns that the world is only a jumble of futile, ill-made things.  The admiral had weeded out most of these illusions at the start.

“So much for suppositions and analysis,” panted Fitzgerald, reknotting his silk tie.  “As for me, I go to the Arctic; cold, but safe.  I have never fallen in love.  I have enjoyed the society of many women, and to some I’ve been silly enough to write, but I have never been maudlin.  I’m no fool.  This is the place where it would be most likely to happen.  Let us beat an orderly retreat.  What the devil ails my fingers to-night?  M’h!  There; will you stay tied as I want you?  She has traveled, she has studied, she is at home with grand dukes in Nice, and scribblers in a country village.  She is wise without being solemn.  She has courage, too, or I should not be here on a mere fluke.  Now, my boy, you have given yourself due notice.  Take care!”

He slipped his coat over his shoulders—­and passably sturdy ones they were—­and took a final look into the glass.  Not for vanity’s sake; sometimes a man’s tie will show above the collar of his coat.

“Hm!  I’ll wager the trout are rising about this time.”  He imitated a cast which was supposed to land neatly in the corner.  “Ha!  Struck you that time, you beauty!” All of which proved to himself, conclusively, that he was in normal condition.  “I should get a wire to-morrow about Breitmann.  I hate to do anything that looks underhand, but he puzzles me.  There was something about the chimney to-day; I don’t know what.  This is no place for him—­nor for me, either,” was the shrewd supplement.