I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. Opposite to her was a sallow-visaged young man, whose small tie seemed like a smudge of obtusively shiny black across the front of a high close-drawn collar. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. " "Rot! Mac, what do you suppose the natives used to call her? The Dawn Pearl!" McClintock wagged his Scotch head negatively. "If any one's to blame, it's me.
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