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 had been twiddling the lapel of Signor Tamponi's coat, but that gentleman had departed, as had another gentleman whose fountain pen Mamie had coquettishly borrowed to write an address. The awful part of it was, he was beginning to feel sorry for Mamie.

"Where are we going to have dinner?" she asked.

Grover was unable to tell her. All he knew was that Floss had asked him to remain with a few others, apparently including Hellgren and Olga. Peñaverde and the Marchesa, too, showed no disposition to depart, and Floss had just ordered one of her Cossacks to bring cocktails for eight.

From the group at the fireplace a good-natured shout went up. Apparently the princess had said something affectionately ribald to her husband.

"Come on," Mamie ordered, and as they rose to join the others she slid a long arm over his shoulder, making her horrid little pushing sounds in his ear. Olga, who noticed him only at inopportune moments, on the promptings of some demon of alertness within her, glanced up just in time to see Mamie's proorietary gesture.

Floss's prince, who was a gourmet, had telephoned to an exclusive restaurant which resembled a smart little club. A garden sheltered it from the street, and within, the subdued lights and intimate proportions of the rooms gave one a sense of being far away from