Great Central:  Gentleman who saw lady in bonnet 9 Monday morning in Great Central Hotel lift would greatly value opportunity of obtaining introduction.

This exhausted the joys of the Agony Column for the day, and West, like the solid citizen he really was, took up the Times to discover what might be the morning’s news.  A great deal of space was given to the appointment of a new principal for Dulwich College.  The affairs of the heart, in which that charming creature, Gabrielle Ray, was at the moment involved, likewise claimed attention.  And in a quite unimportant corner, in a most unimportant manner, it was related that Austria had sent an ultimatum to Serbia.  West had read part way through this stupid little piece of news, when suddenly the Thunderer and all its works became an uninteresting blur.

A girl stood just inside the door of the Carlton breakfast room.

Yes; he should have pondered that despatch from Vienna.  But such a girl!  It adds nothing at all to say that her hair was a dull sort of gold; her eyes violet.  Many girls have been similarly blessed.  It was her manner; the sweet way she looked with those violet eyes through a battalion of head waiters and resplendent managers; her air of being at home here in the Carlton or anywhere else that fate might drop her down.  Unquestionably she came from oversea—­from the States.

She stepped forward into the restaurant.  And now slipped also into view, as part of the background for her, a middle-aged man, who wore the conventional black of the statesman.  He, too, bore the American label unmistakably.  Nearer and nearer to West she drew, and he saw that in her hand she carried a copy of the Daily Mail.

West’s waiter was a master of the art of suggesting that no table in the room was worth sitting at save that at which he held ready a chair.  Thus he lured the girl and her companion to repose not five feet from where West sat.  This accomplished, he whipped out his order book, and stood with pencil poised, like a reporter in an American play.

“The strawberries are delicious,” he said in honeyed tones.

The man looked at the girl, a question in his eyes.

“Not for me, dad,” she said.  “I hate them!  Grapefruit, please.”

As the waiter hurried past, West hailed him.  He spoke in loud defiant tones.

“Another plate of the strawberries!” he commanded.  “They are better than ever to-day.”

For a second, as though he were part of the scenery, those violet eyes met his with a casual impersonal glance.  Then their owner slowly spread out her own copy of the Mail.

“What’s the news?” asked the statesman, drinking deep from his glass of water.

“Don’t ask me,” the girl answered, without looking up.  “I’ve found something more entertaining than news.  Do you know—­the English papers run humorous columns!  Only they aren’t called that.  They’re called Personal Notices.  And such notices!” She leaned across the table.  “Listen to this:  ’Dearest:  Tender loving wishes to my dear one.  Only to be with you now and always.  None “fairer in my eyes.”—­’”