“Don’t ask me, mamma, I am as much puzzled as you over his sudden advent.  It is barely possible he did not go to New York.”

“Well, why didn’t he?” This was almost a threat.

“It is a mystery we have yet to unravel.  Shall we send for Sherlock Holmes?”

“Dorothy, I am very serious.  How can you make light of this unwarranted intrusion?  He is—­”

“Why do you call it intrusion, mamma?  Has he not the right to come?  Can we close the door in his face?  Is he not a friend?  Can we help ourselves if he knocks at our door and asks to see us?” Dorothy felt a smart tug of guilt as she looked back and saw herself trudging sheepishly up the front steps beside the intruder, who had not been permitted to knock at the door.

“A gentleman would not subject you to the comments of—­of—­well, I may say the whole world.  He certainly saw the paragraphs in those London papers, and he knows that we cannot permit them to be repeated over here.  He has no right to thrust himself upon us under the circumstances.  You must give him to understand at once, Dorothy, that his intentions—­or visits, if you choose to call them such—­are obnoxious to both of us.”

“Oh, mamma! we’ve talked all this over before.  What can I do?  I wouldn’t offend him for the world, and I am sure he is incapable of any desire to have me talked about, He knows me and he likes me too well for that.  Perhaps he will go away soon,” said Dorothy, despairing petulance in her voice, Secretly she was conscious of the justice in her mother’s complaints.

“He shall go soon,” said Mrs. Garrison, with determination.

“You will not—­will not drive him away?” said her daughter, quickly.

“I shall make him understand that you are not the foolish child he knew in New York.  You are about to become a princess.  He shall be forced to see the impregnable wall between himself and the Princess Ravorelli—­for you are virtually the owner of that glorious title.  A single step remains and then you are no longer Dorothy Garrison.  Philip Quentin I have always disliked, even mistrusted.  His reputation in New York was that of a man of the town, a rich roisterer, a ‘breaker of hearts,’ as your uncle has often called him.  He is a daring notoriety seeker, and this is rare sport for him.”  Mrs. Garrison’s eyes were blazing, her hands were clenched, her bearing that of one who is both judge and executioner.

“I think you do him an injustice,” said Dorothy, slowly, a feeling of deep resentment asserting itself.  “Philip is not what you call him.  He is a gentleman.”  Mother and daughter looked into each other’s eyes squarely for a moment, neither flinching, both justifying themselves for the positions they were to take.

“You defend him?”

“As he would defend me.”

“You have another man to defend.  Do you think of him?”

“You have yet to say that Ugo is no gentleman.  It will then be time for defense, such as I am offering now.”