Luncheon on the day following the kiskadee bird's narrow squeak
for his life was a dreary affair for Mr. Fitzhugh Carroll.
Business had called Mr. Brewster away. This deprivation the
Southerner would have borne with equanimity. But Miss Brewster had
also absented herself, which was rather too much for the devoted,
but apprehensive, lover. Thus, ample time was given him to
consider how ill his suit was prospering. The longer he stayed,
the less he saw of Miss Polly. That she was kinder and more
gentle, less given to teasing him than of yore, was poor
compensation. He was shrewd enough to draw no good augury from
that. Something had altered her, and he was divided between
suspicion of the last week's mail, the arrival of which had been
about contemporaneous with her change of spirit, and some local
cause. Was a letter from Smith, the millionaire, or Bobby, the
friend of her childhood, responsible? Or was the cause nearer at
hand?

For one preposterous moment <a href="http://www.certifyme.com/CCIP-
certification-training.htm">CCIP Braindumps</a> 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.

"Oh, Miss Polly," he began, taking a step toward her, "if you'd
only let me--"

She put up one little sunburned hand.

"Please, Fitz! I--I don't feel up to it to-day."

Humbly he subsided.

"I'd no right to ask you the question," he apologized. "It was
kind of you to answer me at all."

"You're really a dear, Fitz," she said, smiling a little wanly.
"Sometimes I wish--"

She did not finish her sentence, but wandered over to the window,
and gazed out across the square. On the far side something quite
out of the ordinary seemed to be going on.

"The legless beggar seems to have collected quite an audience,"
she remarked idly.

Her suitor joined her on the parlor balcony.

"Possibly he's starting a revolution. Any one can do it down
here."

Vehement adjuration, in a high, strident voice, came floating
across to them.

"Listen!" cried the girl. "He's speaking. English, isn't he?"

"It seems to be a mixture of English, French, and Spanish. Quite a
polyglot the friend of your friend Perkins appears to be."

She turned steady eyes upon him.

"Mr. Perkins is not my friend."