The young man by the nearest poppy-bed plucked a great scarlet flower.  Luckily for him the head gardener was not about.  Then slowly he walked over to the young woman.  The little foot became still.

“I am sailing day after to-morrow for Rio Janeiro,” he said.  He laid on the broad marble top of the baluster a little chamois-bag.  “Will you have these reset and wear them for me?”

“The sapphires?  Why, you mustn’t let them go out of the family.  They are wonderful heirlooms.”

“I do not intend to let them go out of the family,” he replied quietly.

Kitty stirred the bag with her fingers.  She did not raise her eyes from it.  In fact, she would have found it difficult to look elsewhere just then.

“Will you wear them?”

“Yes.”

“And some day will you call me Thomas?”

“Yes . . .  When you return.”

Somewhere back I spoke of Magic Carpets we writer chaps have.  A thing of flimsy dreams and fancies!  But I forgot the millionaire’s.  His is real, made of legal-tenders woven intricately, wonderfully.  Does he wish a palace, a yacht, a rare jewel?  Whiz!  There you are, sir.  No flowery flourishes; the cold, hard, beautiful facts of reality.  Killigrew had his Magic Carpet, and he spread it out and stood on it as he and Mrs. Killigrew viewed the pair out on the terrace. (The millionaire can sometimes wish happiness with his Carpet.)

“Molly, I’m going to send Thomas down to Rio.  He’ll be worth exactly fifteen hundred the year . . . for years.  But I’m going to give him five thousand the first year, ten thousand the next, and twenty thereafter . . . if he sticks.  And I think he will.  He’ll never be any the wiser.”  He paused tantalizingly.

“Well?” demanded Mrs. Killigrew, smiling.

“Well, neither will Kitty.”