was thinking of capital and labor in the industrial phase. Men had been slaves and serfs for centuries, but capital and labor in the modern sense were the twin offspring of the union of coal and iron.

"One hundred years," I said. "From the Napoleonic wars to the Great War.” Gwendolyn looked up at me with one of her sudden smiles.

"Then, Jackie, you will be eighty years old before you realize your ambition. You have fifty years to wait."

Would the tyranny of labor last one hundred years, I wondered. I threw a pebble into the lake and watched the chaos of color gradually through successive rhythms give place to the ordered, symmetrical quiet of a reflection identical to the one we had seen before I threw the stone.

"After each great war in the world's history that has happened," I said, pointing at the swirl of color: "everything has gone into the crucible, and it has seemed as if something better must form afterward. But mankind has slipped back just as that reflection is slipping back, slowly, rhythmically. 1919-20-what an opportunity they had! But man was lymphatic, and the gods played a joke on him. They threw more pebbles." I dashed a handful of gravel into the lake.

We were both silent for several minutes; then Gwendolyn suggested that her world and mine might have to be thrown together and fused again in some mightier cataclysm.

In such interchange of ideas and opinions we spent our time together. All discussion of our present and future personal relationship was, by an unspoken understanding, taboo. I think we both felt instinctively that once love and passion entered into our relations, they would preclude all other emotions.

Slowly at the time, and with uncanny rapidity in retrospect, the summer passed.

Of course all was not smooth sailing. Two people could not meet clandestinely in a country where such meetings were illegal without running obvious risks and encountering hair-breadth escapes. We had many such, one of which was especially noteworthy and un

forgetable. As a result of it I became at first an involuntary, and then an all too willing, inmate of Wigleigh Hall.

We were in the garden one evening at the end of an excessively hot day. An uncanny stillness enveloped us. The air was torpid. Every now and then the leaves on the trees about us shivered in anticipation of the storm which was slowly approaching, with long, ponderous reverberations of distant thunder and fitful flashes of lightning. We sat and watched the tempest's almost measured tread toward us. Steadily the thunder grew louder, the lightning more brilliant. It was like the coming of a vast Juggernaut with rolling drums.

We had caught the spell of the drowsing garden, and were unusually silent. Something had been said about the advisability of my taking my departure before the storm broke, but nothing had been done about the matter.

For nearly two hours we sat in fascinated contemplation of the storm's relentless oncoming, until it seemed to us that so it must continue, like some titanic treadmill, approaching always and arriving never. Gwendolyn gave expression to that thought, but the literalminded chaperon said something to the effect that storms which kept coming eventually came.

No sooner had she spoken than nature proved her a prophet. A few big drops fell like hot tears from some giant, a sudden gust of wind, a wild splash, and then the deluge.

We ran frantically up the path and entered Wigleigh Hall. As we stood in a group and talked about our escape from drowning, a puddle formed on the floor.

From the very first Gwendolyn and I had agreed to observe the reasonable caution of meetings always in the garden and never in the house. So this was the first time that I had set foot under the baron's roof since my airplane visit.

As I was already in the house, Gwendolyn decided that I might as well stay there until the storm had passed, for mama and papa were at a dinner party at Prince Romanoff's, from which Gwendolyn had Gwendolyn had excused herself by

feigning a headache in order to spend the evening with me.

When Gwendolyn went to her room to change her dress the chaperon led me through a maze of corridors to one of the servant's rooms. There a frightened young man who was pretending not to mind the storm was told to lend me some clothes. The young man asked no questions. I volunteered no information.

When I had changed, the chaperon, who had waited for me somewhere in the neighborhood, reappeared, and conducted me to Gwendolyn's boudoir. I was thrilled. My heart beat faster than was its wont, and I felt a strange elation, an inexplicable exhilaration, which gave a touch of unreality to all I saw, heard, did, and said. From that moment I understood the phrase, "Walking on air," which I had encountered often in romantic literature and had thought rather silly or at least over-fanciful.

The boudoir was indescribably beautiful. It seemed somehow to be permeated with Gwendolyn's personality. Every chair was comfortable, the colors were harmonious, the lights soft, low, restful. Yes, it was Gwendolyn, but a new Gwendolyn, a Gwendolyn in a fascinating negligée, intimate, appealing, entrancingly feminine, and with a soupçon of mystery about her.

I thought myself speechless, but suddenly I became aware of my voice saying, "Your boudoir, how wonderful!" and in some vague way I knew it was not the first time that I had said it. Gwendolyn was laughing, but not so much at me as with me.

"What's the matter, Jackie?"

"You 're-you 're so different-here," I stammered.

"That 's rather a questionable compliment."

"Not at all. I knew the first time that I saw you that you would be wonderful in a thousand different ways, but. how could I tell just what the wonders would be? Now I have been vouchsafed acquaintance with yet another wonder."

"It is n't I." She laughed softly again. "It's the lighting, Jackie dear. I'm glad you like my boudoir," she added pensively. "It's the only com

You

fortable room in the house. As long as you 're here now, I ought to take you for a tour of the establishment. may never have another opportunity. Mama and papa won't be home for hours. The Romanoffs always have stuffy dinners. Besides, mama and papa can't possibly fly back in this storm."

I wanted to stay in the boudoir, but I knew that if I did, I would surely make love to Gwendolyn. And then, too, I was curious to see the mansion.

Gwendolyn read my thoughts, I think, for she said with an enigmatic smile:

"We can be cozy when we come back. It won't take long."

And with that she led the way. I followed, and behind us trailed the chaperon. Did n't the poor woman ever get tired of following Gwendolyn about, I wondered.

"First we 'll visit mama's apartment, very gorgeous, Louis Quatorze. After you see it and realize that mama lives in it you'll understand her better."

"It's a room in a museum," I gasped as we entered. "She does n't sleep in that bed, does she?"

"Yes. Does n't this make mama clear to you, Jackie?"

"No. It only makes you more inexplicable than ever," I replied.

"This is mother's boudoir," announced Gwendolyn as we entered a slightly smaller room done in the same stupendous manner. "This door leads to papa's sanctum sanctorum.”

Never was contrast more abysmal. Papa's den was utterly English; heavy, dark mahogany, rich, eternal. There were books; the man actually read! And everywhere were framed engravings of notable coats of arms.

"Father's hobby is heraldry," said Gwendolyn.

A door was open into an adjoining

room.

"That 's his bedroom." She pointed through the door.

I walked in. I had hardly glanced about when the chaperon emitted a noise which was the result of a groan turning into a squeak. I turned. Gwendolyn turned. The chaperon was white and trembling visibly. In the study

from which we had just come stood the cause of her agitation, the baron! "Mein Gott! Mein Gott!" the chaperon repeated helplessly.

Now we were in for it!

"Quick!" said Gwendolyn, and running past me she seized one of my hands and dragged me toward the door at the opposite end of the room.

As we crossed the bedroom I remember thinking that this would be one charge that the baron would press and one arrest that he would see through to the end. I tripped over a rug.

"That you, Jenkins?" the baron called out.

We reached the door; Gwendolyn pushed me ahead of her. But it was too late; the baron was in the room.

"Fräulein, what are you doing in here?" he asked. "Gwendolyn my dear -who 's that?" "That" meant me. My mouth opened and closed. Not a sound emerged. But it did not matter. The baron went on talking. "How 's your headache, my dear? Much better, of course. Extraordinary headaches you have lately. They come and go with precision. Where 's Jenkins?" He paused. The jig was up, I told myself; he suspected Gwendolyn. He had come home on purpose.

I caught sight of the chaperon. She was petrified, like a little stone image of some pagan god. Her face was ashen gray. I looked at Gwendolyn. She was quite composed and smiled reassuringly. "Khat-choo!"

I almost jumped out of my skin. The baron was sneezing violently.

"Got caught in the beastly storm," he said as soon as he had stopped sneezing. "Soaking wet. Must take a hot bath or I'll die of cold. Silly way to die, that." Suddenly he looked at me and took a step toward me. "That face, that face!"

Instinctively my hands went up to hide the offending physiognomy.

"What's the matter with it, Papa?" "Familiar, damned familiar! Where 's Jenkins?"

Gwendolyn ignored his question. "Naturally his face is familiar. You 've seen him before."

"His clothes look like Jenkins, but his face does n't," said the baron.

"I looked at myself askance, and for the first time realized that I had on a valet's outfit, and was therefore reasonably safe unless the baron remembered

me.

"Jenkins has left," Gwendolyn was saying. "This I presume is Smith the new man you engaged. I came in to look for a book, and found him here." The baron looked at me sharply. "I engaged him?"

"Why, yes, Father; yesterday." "Yesterday!

Yesterday! Beastly

bore; can't remember. Face is familiar." Another violent fit of sneezing gave a new direction to his discourse. "Daughter, Fräulein, get out! Manwhatever your name is-"

"Smith, sir," I interposed. "Your Lordship," whispered Gwendo

lyn.

"No, no; not Smith," continued the baron. "Draw tub, lay out pajamas, take off shoes. Good night, Gwendolyn."

The poor little chaperon fairly fled from the room, squeezing past Gwendolyn, who had turned in the doorway.

Gwendolyn smiled at me with her eyes and said:

"Good night, dear."

Papa thought of course that these bounties were meant for him, and repeated vaguely:

"Good night, good night."

He sat down, and I prepared to remove his shoes. The door closed. I was alone with Baron Wigleigh. I heard Gwendolyn laughing as she went down the corridor. I was far from laughing. What I did not know about the art of being a valet would have made an interesting university course.

"So somebody called Smith begat you, and now you have to go through life with a name that has become the symbol of a class. Too bad!" said the baron as I removed his right shoe.

I wondered if menials thank barons for sympathy.

"I sha'n't call you Smith." "What would your lordship like to call me?" I asked in my best valet manner as I removed his left shoe.

"I shall name you something appropriate after I know you better. A man's name should fit him."

"Yes, your Lordship."

"Are you just agreeing or do you really think so?"

"I really think so, your Lordship." "You think! How extraordinary!" After a little rummaging in drawers I found his pajamas. I placed them on the bed. In a closet I discovered some slippers. Thank Heaven that barons did not differ from most mortals when it came to these matters! I put the slippers on his feet, then I went to the bath-room, a vast place in which the "tub" was a small swimming-pool sunk below the level of the room. There was a shower also, and along the walls were various gymnastic instruments.

"I like my tub at ninety-eight degrees Fahrenheit," said the baron.

Fastened to the side of the lake he called a tub was a thermometer. Water flowed into this pool and drained out continuously, so that to keep the water at a temperature of ninety-eight was simply a matter of regulating the proportion of hot to cold water in the inflow. This I accomplished with little difficulty.

Presently the baron entered. He removed his bath-robe, which he must have found for himself, since I had completely forgotten the existence of such a thing, and stepped into the pool. He swam about, in some way contriving to keep his monocled eye dry.

I thought I ought to leave; but he seemed to expect me to stay, so I remained. I caught myself thinking: "All naked men look alike. What makes a baron?" Of course there was that glass eye. How the dickens did he manage to keep it in while he swam? I wanted to ask him, but a fortunate sense of discretion restrained me.

His head bobbed up.

"You may fix me a hot toddy," he said.

"Yes, sir-your Lordship."

What the deuce was a hot toddy? I tried to remember, but this must be one alcoholic beverage which I had missed.

"Where will I find it, your lordship?" "You can't find it," he replied and began splashing about.

I thought this over. Amused, he looked at me.

"It does n't exist until you create it." "I meant where would I find the ingredients, your Lordship."

"You should always say what you mean. You will find everything you require except hot water in the cellarette in my study. And over there"-he pointed to the wash-stand-"is a tap marked 'hot drinking-water.' Just a dash of lemon. I don't like it too sour."

Well, at any rate, I had discovered that the thing called "toddy" was made with hot water and had a dash of lemon in it.

I went into the study. It took me a little time to discover that a curious, cabinet-like piece of furniture opened up and contained many bottles. I looked them over. There were a lot of those things called cordials, port, sherry,

of granulated sugar. Anything with a dash of lemon in it must have a dash of sugar, too. Besides, had not the baron said, "not too sour"? I hurriedly dumped a spoonful of sugar into the glass. I returned to my perusal of the labels. Words echoed in my mind. "Father's hobby is heraldry," Gwendolyn had remarked. "Heraldry!" My poor brain repeated it. The bottle marked "Scotch" had more coat of arms on it than any other. I seized it quickly before I had time to weaken, and half filled my tumbler with its contents. I stirred the sugar and added the dash of lemon. Then I marched off to get the hot water.

As I passed through the bedroom the baron, now attired in pink pajamas, was clambering into bed. He looked at the glass in my hand.

"Is n't that rather a stiff dose?" he asked.

I had not the remotest idea what he meant. So I compromised.

"Does your lordship think so?" I asked.

"Well, perhaps to cure a cold-" He nodded his head. "If I become loquacious in my sleep, it really won't matter." He waved his hand at me.

I continued into the bath-room, added the hot water, and returned. I handed the tumbler to the baron, and did n't know whether to run for my life or await the results of my concoction. He sipped it, and then looked at me.

"Extraordinary!" he murmured.

I waited, certain that death-sentence was about to be passed on the new valet. "You made it with Scotch instead of rye!"

I swallowed hard.

"Yes, your Lordship." I could think of no adequate defense.

"Ninety-nine persons out of one hundred would have made it with rye. I

prefer Scotch. Thank you-Watson." "Is that to be my name, your Lordship?" I inquired, treating the matter of the Scotch with outward indifference, but inwardly blessing my luck.

"Yes. "Watson' is a person who interprets his master's wishes and appreciates his good taste. Good night, Watson. I shall go right to sleep. You may open all the windows and put out the lights. Awaken me at eight o'clock. Remind me that I must prepare a paper for the Royal Blues."

I did as he directed. As I closed the door behind me I heard the baron mur

mur:

"A Watson at last! Thank God!"

Outside in the corridor I ran into the pathetic little chaperon, who stared at me with startled eyes. I don't think she had expected to see me alive again.

"Ach Gott in Himmel!" she exclaimed. "Miss Gwendolyn she would know what happened."

"Tell Miss Gwendolyn that as a valet I am a triumphant success. My name is Watson," I added grandly.

"Colossal! Wundervoll!" came in tones of admiration from the slowly reviving chaperon.

We reached the chamber in which I was to spend the night. Fräulein bade me good night and left me.

While I undressed I decided that my days as a tourist were over. Watson chance had made me, and Watson I would remain until some faux pas of mine brought down on me the baron's displeasure. I got into bed and turned out the light.

Somewhere under the same roof Gwendolyn slept, or lay awake thinking of me as I was thinking of her. There was something about this thought that sent me into Slumberland more serenely and mellifluously than I had ever gone before.