For one preposterous moment he thought of the Unspeakable Perk.  A quick visualization of that gnomish, froggish face was enough to dispel the suspicion.  At least the petted and rather fastidious Miss Brewster’s fancy would be captured only by a gentleman, not by any such homunculus as the mountain dweller.  Her interest, perhaps; the man possessed the bizarre attraction of the freakish.  But anything else was absurd.  And the knight was inclined to attaint his lady for a certain cruelty in the matter; she was being something less than fair to the Unspeakable Perk.

The searchlight of his surmise ranged farther.  Raimonda!  The young Caracunan was handsome, distinguished, manly, with a romantic charm that the American did not underestimate.  He, at least, was a gentleman, and the assiduity of his attentions to the Northern beauty had become the joke of the clubs—­except when Raimonda was present.  By the same token, half of the gilded youth of the capital, and most of the young diplomats, were the sworn slaves of the girl.  It was a confused field, indeed.  Well, thank Heaven, she would soon be out of it!  Word had come down from her that she was busy packing her things.  Carroll wandered about the hotel, waiting for the news that would explain this preparation.

It came, at mid-afternoon, in the person of Miss Polly herself.  Why packing trunks, with the aid of an experienced maid, should, even in a hot climate, produce heavy circles under the eyes, a droop at the mouth corners, and a complete submersion of vivacity, is a problem which Carroil then and there gave up.  He had too much tact to question or comment.

“Oh, I’m so tired!” she said, giving him her hand.  “Have you much packing to do, Fitzhugh?”

“No one has given me any notice to get ready, Miss Polly.”

“How very neglectful of me!  We may leave at any time.”

“Yes; you may.  But my ship doesn’t seem to be coming in very fast.”

The double entente was unintentional, but the girl winced.

“Aren’t you coming with us on the yacht?”

“Am I?” His handsome face lighted hopefully.

“Of course.  Dad expects you to.  What kind of people should we be to leave any friend behind, with matters as they are?”

“Ah, yes.”  The hope passed out of his face.  “Dictates of humanity, and that sort of thing.  I think, if you and Mr. Brewster—­”

“Please don’t be silly, Fitz,” she pleaded.  “You know it would make me most unhappy to leave you.”

Rarely did the scion of Southern blood and breeding lose the self-control and reserve on which he prided himself, but he had been harassed by events to an unwonted strain of temper.

“Is it making you unhappy to leave any one else here?” he blurted out.

The challenge stirred the girl’s spirit.

“No, indeed!  I wouldn’t care if I never saw any of them again.  I’m tired of it all.  I want to go home,” she said, like a pathetic child.