By The Water-Gate

It was a vast, lofty apartment, regal in its subdued lights. An enormous, golden bed with gorgeous hangings stood far down the room. So huge was this royal couch that Truxton at first overlooked the figure sitting bolt upright in the middle of it. The tiny occupant called out in a very sleepy voice: "Here I am, Mr. King. Gee, I hate a bed as big as this. They just make me sleep in it."

An old woman advanced from the head of the couch and motioned Truxton to approach.

"I am deeply honoured, your Highness," said the visitor, bowing very low. Through the windows he could see motionless soldiers standing guard in the balcony.

"Come over here, Mr. King. Nurse won't let me get up. Excuse my nighty, will you, please? I'm to have pajamas next winter."

Truxton advanced to the side of the bed. His eyes had swept the room in search of the one person he wanted most to see of all in the world. An old male servitor was drawing the curtains at the lower end of the room. There was no one else there, except the nurse. They seemed as much a part of the furnishings of this room as if they had been fixtures from the beginning.

"I am sure you will like them," said Truxton, wondering whether she were divinely secreted in one of the great, heavily draped window recesses. She had been in this room but recently. A subtle, delicate, enchanting perfume that he had noticed earlier in the evening--ah, he would never forget it.