Rodney had had a hard day. He had climbed a
mountain--or, more accurately speaking, he had climbed half-way up and
then the same half down. He was very tired. Freddie observed from his
lonely station that Mr. Rodney was fast dropping to sleep,
notwithstanding his companion's rapid flow of small talk. It did not
take Freddie long to decide. He was an outcast and a pariah and he was
very lonely. He must have someone to talk to. Without more ado he bore
down upon the couple, and a moment later was tactfully advising the
sleepy Mr. Rodney to take himself off to bed,--advice which that
gentleman gladly accepted. And so it came about that Freddie sat face to
face with the last resort, at the foot of the _chaise-longue_, gazing
with serene adulation into the eyes of a woman who might have had a son
as old as he--if she had had one at all. She had been a coquette in her
salad days; there was no doubt of it. She had encountered fervid
gallants in all parts of the world and in all stations of life. But it
remained for the gallant Freddie Ulstervelt to bowl her over with
surprise for the first time in her long and varied career. At the end of
half an hour she pulled herself together and tapped him on the shoulder
with her fan, a quizzical smile on her lips.
"My dear Mr. Ulstervelt, are you trying to make love to me? You nice
Americans! How gallant you can be. I am quite old enough to be your
mother.
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