But all this was only mildly interesting, now, compared with “the young man lion.”

Of course they had to tell him, first thing when he came, that Mary Alice did not know who he was.  He looked a little surprised at first; then he seemed to relish the joke hugely.  When Godmother added certain explanations, he grew grave again.

“I like that,” he said.  “I think it’s a fine game, and I wish I might play it.  I can’t, most of the time.  But I can play it with you, if you’ll let me,” he went on, turning to Mary Alice.  She nodded assent.  “That’s splendid!” he cried.  “I haven’t played a jolly game like this since I was a boy.  Now, you’re not to think I’m a king in disguise or anything like that.  There’s really nothing about me that’s at all interesting; only, on account of something that has happened to me, people are talking about me—­for nine days or so.  I’ll be going on, in a day or two, and every one will forget.  Now let’s play the game.  May I make toast?”

“You may,” she said.

In a little while, some one came to call on Godmother who took the caller into the library; and the toast-making went on undisturbed.

Whoever he was, he seemed to know something about camp-fires; and squatting on the rug before the glowing grate, toasting bread, reminded him of things he had heard strange men tell, as the intimacy of the night fire in the wilderness brought their stories out.  It was fascinating talk, and Mary Alice listened enthralled.

“I didn’t know I had that much talk in me,” he laughed, a little confusedly, as he rose to go.  “It must be the surroundings that are responsible—­and the game.”

Godmother, whose caller was gone, asked him to stay to dinner.

“I wish I could!” he said wistfully, noting in the distance the cozy dinner table set for two.  “If you could only know where I must dine instead!”

“You seem to dread it,” said Mary Alice.

“I do,” he answered.

She looked at Godmother.  “I wish we could tell him the Secret,” she suggested shyly, “it might help.”

Godmother looked very thoughtful, as if gravely considering.  “Not yet,” she decided, shaking her head; “it’s too soon.”

“I think so too,” he said.  “I’m afraid you might lose interest in me after you had told me.  I’d rather wait.”

The next day was Sunday.  He had engagements for lunch and dinner, but he asked if he might slip in again for tea; he was leaving town Monday.

So they had another beautiful hour, at what Godmother loved to speak of as “candle-lightin’ time,” and while Mary Alice was in the kitchen cutting bread to toast, Godmother and her guest made notes in tiny note-books.

“There!” she said, when she had written the Gramercy Park address in his book.  “Anything you send here will always reach her, wherever she is.”

“And any answer she may care to make to me, if you’ll address it to me there,” handing back her book to her, “will always reach me, wherever I may be.”