There followed days and nights of revelry.  Hops, concerts, entertainments of all sorts, with a more pretentious ball on Saturday night, when the week-tired man from New York arrived in the afternoon to find temperature twenty degrees lower, and the altitude very much higher than was the case in his busy office in the city.  Katherine revelled in this round of excitement, and indeed, so, in a milder way, did Dorothy.  After the functions were over the girls enjoyed a comforting chat with one another in their drawing room; all windows open, and the moon a-shining down over the luminous valley, which it seemed to fill with mother-o’-pearl dust.

Young Mr. J. K. Henderson of New York, having danced repeatedly with Katherine on Saturday night, unexpectedly turned up for the hop on the following Wednesday, when he again danced repeatedly with the same joyous girl.  It being somewhat unusual for a keen business man to take a four hours’ journey during an afternoon in the middle of the week, and, as a consequence, arrive late at his office next morning, Dorothy began to wonder if a concrete formation, associated with the name of Prince Ivan Lermontoff of Russia, was strong enough to stand an energetic assault of this nature, supposing it were to be constantly repeated.  It was after midnight on Wednesday when the two reached the corner parlor.  Dorothy sat in a cane armchair, while Katherine threw herself into a rocking-chair, laced her fingers behind her head, and gazed through the open window at the misty infinity beyond.

“Well,” sighed Katherine, “this has been the most enjoyable evening I ever spent!”

“Are you quite sure?” inquired her friend.

“Certainly.  Shouldn’t I know?”

“He dances well, then?”

“Exquisitely!”

“Better than Jack Lamont?”

“Well, now you mention him I must confess Jack danced very creditably.”

“I didn’t know but you might have forgotten the Prince.”

“No, I haven’t exactly forgotten him, but—­ I do think he might have written to me.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?  Did he ask your permission to write?”

“Good gracious, no.  We never talked of writing.  Old red sandstone, rather, was our topic of conversation.  Still, he might have acknowledged receipt of the book.”

“But the book was given to him in return for the one he presented to you.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.  I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Then again, Kate, Russian notions regarding writing to young ladies may differ from ours, or he may have fallen overboard, or touched a live wire.”

“Yes, there are many possibilities,” murmured Katherine dreamily.

“It seems rather strange that Mr. Henderson should have time to come up here in the middle of the week.”

“Why is it strange?” asked Katherine.  “Mr. Henderson is not a clerk bound down to office hours.  He’s an official high up in one of the big insurance companies, and gets a simply tremendous salary.”