Were not Americans mad after Counts?
And such a nobleman! Wealthy, handsome, brilliant, bold--who could refuse his love?
Not the Harleys--not Miss Harley! No, the transparent sureness of it set sneeringly a-curl the San Reve's mouth.

Soon or late, Storri would lead Miss Harley to the altar.

The bells would ring, the organ swell, the people gape and comment.

And then Storri and his bride would ride away; while she, the San Reve--she, the disgraced--she, the daughter of a man who tamed lions--she would be left alone with her despised heart! All this wild driftwood of conjecture came riding down on the swift, tumbling currents of the San Reve's thoughts, and to her these mad conclusions were as prophecy.

What should she do--she and her poor love?
She must not lose her idol--her Storri! What should she do?
She had written this Mr.Storms of the French shares and nothing had come of that! Should she disclose herself to Miss Harley?
Of what avail?
What woman was ever withheld from wedding a man by the word of that man's mistress?
The San Reve could have scorned herself for a fool! She was handless to interfere; the San Reve clenched her white, strong teeth to find herself so much at bay.
Stop; there was one chance of defeating fate--a sure chance; the thought had come before! And now the San Reve looked strangely at Storri; her teeth showed pearl against the coral of her parted lips while her nostrils dilated like the nostrils of an animal.
The little world you have been considering through the medium of this veracious chronicle began now to adjust itself to the changes that have been recorded.