disliked the place or the people, but that one Philip Quentin had
unceremoniously, even gracefully, stepped into the circle of her
contentment, rudely obliterating its symmetrical, well-drawn lines.

Mr. Quentin had much to overcome if he contemplated an assault upon
the icy reserve with which Dorothy Garrison's mother regarded his
genial advances. She recalled the days when her daughter and he were
"silly, lovesick children," and there was not much comfort to be
derived from the knowledge that he had grown older and more
attractive, and that he lost no opportunity to see the girl who once
held his heart in leash. The mother was too diplomatic to express
open displeasure or to offer the faintest objection to this renewal
of friendship. If it were known that she opposed the visits of the
handsome American, all London would wonder, speculate, and finally
understand. Her disapproval could only be construed as an
acknowledgment that she feared the consequences of association; it
would not be long before the story would be afloat that all was not
smooth in the love affairs of a certain prince, and that the fires
of an old affection were burning brightly and merrily in the face of
a wrathful parent's opposition.

In secret, Dorothy herself was troubled more than she cared to admit
by the reappearance of one who could not but awaken memories of
other days, fondly foolish though they were. He was still the same
old Phil, grown older and handsomer, and he brought with him
embarrassing recollections. He was nothing more to her now than an
old-time friend, and she was nothing to him. She loved Ugo
Ravorelli, and, until he appeared suddenly before her in London,
Philip Quentin was dead to her thoughts. And yet she felt as if she
were playing with a fire that would leave its scar--not on her heart