"Fine chance! But don't you worry. Your mother's a sensible woman.

She'll get back to the hotel, if she isn't there already."

"I wish she had not gone. Father will be tearing his hair and twigging

the whole Savoy force by the ears."

Crawford smiled. Readily enough he could conjure up the picture of Mr.

Killigrew, short, thick-set, energetic, raging back and forth in the

lobby, offering to buy taxicabs outright, the hotel, and finally the

city of London itself; typically money-mad American that he was.

Crawford wanted to laugh, but he compromised by saying: "He must be

very careful of that hair of his; he hasn't much left."

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"And he pulls out a good deal of it on my account. Poor dad! Why in

the world should I marry a title?"

"Why, indeed!"

"Mrs. Crawford was beautiful tonight. There wasn't a beauty at the

opera to compare with her. Royalties are frumps, aren't they? And

that ruby! I don't see how she dares wear it!"

"I am not particularly fond of it; but it's a fad of hers. She likes

to wear it on state occasions. I have often wondered if it is really

the Nana Sahib's ruby, as her uncle claimed. Driver, the Savoy, and

remember it carefully; the Savoy."

"Yes, sir; I understand, sir. But we'll all be some time, sir.

Collision forward is what holds us, sir."

Alone again, Kitty Killigrew leaned back, thinking of the man who had

just left her and of his beautiful wife. If only she might some day

have a romance like theirs! Presently she peered out of the

off-window. A brood of Siegfried-dragons prowled about, now going

forward a little, now swerving, now pausing; lurid eyes and threatening

growls.

Once upon a time, in her pigtail days, when her father was going to be

rich and was only half-way between the beginning and the end of his

ambition, Kitty had gone to a tent-circus. Among other things she had

looked wonderingly into the dim, blurry glass-tank of the "human fish,"

who was at that moment busy selling photographs of himself. To-night,

in searching for comparisons, this old forgotten picture recurred to

her mind; blithely memory brought it forth and threw it upon the

screen. All London had become a glass-tank, filled with human

pollywogs.

She did not want to marry a title; she did not want to marry money; she

did not want to marry at all. Poor kindly dad, who believed that she

could be made happy only by marrying a title. As if she was not as

happy now as she was ever destined to be!




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