“Granted, without discussion.  As possible, though not probable, President of the United States, I am magnanimous to an unfortunate who can never hope to be princess, no matter how well she might grace the gilded throne.”

She greeted this glowing remark with a smile so intoxicating that he felt himself the most favored of men.  He saw that smile in his mind’s eye for months afterward, that maddening sparkle of joy, which flashed from her eyes to the very bottom of his heart, there to snuggle forever with Memory’s most priceless treasures.  Their dinner was but one more phase of this fascinating dream.  More than once he feared that he was about to awake to find bleak unhappiness where exquisite joy had reigned so gloriously.  As it drew to an end a sense of depression came over him.  An hour at most was all that he could have with her.  Nine o’clock was drawing nigh with its regrets, its longings, its desolation.  He determined to retain the pleasures of the present until, amid the clanging of bells and the roll of car wheels, the dismal future began.  His intention to accompany them to the station was expressed as they were leaving the table.  She had begun to say good-by to him when he interrupted, self-consciousness forcing the words hurriedly and disjointedly from his lips: 

“You will let me go to the station with you.  I shall—­er—­deem it a pleasure.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, but thanked him and said she would consider it an honor.  His face grew hot and his heart cold with the fancy that there was in her eyes a gleam which said:  “I pity you, poor fellow.”

Notwithstanding his strange misgiving and the fact that his pride had sustained quite a perceptible shock, he drove with them to the station.  They went to the sleeping car a few minutes before the time set for the train’s departure, and stood at the bottom of the steps, uttering the good-bys, the God-speeds and the sincere hope that they might meet again.  Then came the sharp activity of the trainmen, the hurry of belated passengers.  He glanced soberly at his watch.

“It is nine o’clock.  Perhaps you would better get aboard,” he said, and proceeded to assist Aunt Yvonne up the steps.  She turned and pressed his hand gently before passing into the car.

“Adieu, good friend.  You have made it so very pleasant for us,” she said, earnestly.

The tall, soldierly old gentleman was waiting to assist his niece into the coach.

“Go first, Uncle Caspar,” the girl made Lorry happy by saying.  “I can easily come up unaided.”

“Or I can assist her,” Lorry hastened to add, giving her a grateful look which she could not misunderstand.  The uncle shook hands warmly with the young man and passed up the steps.  She was following when Lorry cried,

“Will you not allow me?”

She laughingly turned to him from the steps and stretched forth her hand.