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by a poor sort of street, but the princess thought that she didn't care now; indeed, she would rather go home by a poor sort of street than not. She couldn't see much ahead, Michael and James sat up so high. But she didn't care about seeing ahead. And as she sat looking out at the side, and not thinking of anything in particular, suddenly she saw him. He was very near. In a moment more they would have been past him, and that would have been too bad, for then they would have had to turn around, and that would have been a little-marked; but the princess would have done it.

She sat up suddenly, very straight. "Oh !" she cried. 66 Oh !" There was a fine rosy color in her cheeks; more, you would have thought, than could be accounted for by the day and the storm and the going fast and the bells.

"Oh, Michael !"

And Michael looked around, and he understood; but he didn't smile, not the least little bit.

That was to his credit. And he pulled up his horses and drew up to the curb.

"Good-morning," said the little princess, smiling brightly-but a little timidly. She had never done so much as this before.

"Good-morning," said Somebody, bowing low, his hat in his hand. For Somebody had stopped and come to the curb to meet the sleigh. It would have been very, very rude not to. "I hope your Royal Highness is very well this morning." And he bowed to Martha, too.

The princess laughed aloud at that. "Such nonsense !" she said. "I am not a royal highness; only a poor, lonely girl-the little girl you used to play with. Is it five years orbut where are you going? Can't we take you?"

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Heaven forbid !" said he.

"Who am I that I should ride in the royal sleigh with the princess?" But he smiled as he spoke so that his words didn't hurt the princessnot so very much.

"Well," said the princess, "well--and if you won't let us take you, how-" Her courage gave out there. She could not ask him that.

"But," said he again," if your high mightiness would condescend to be a common person, like me-"

"Ah," said the little princess, sighing wistfully, "I should like that to be like you. But," she added, smiling again, "you know I am not a cominon person.' IIe was not smiling now.

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I know it."

He was very serious, far too serious. "I know it. And that is why."

He lifted his hat again, and again he smiled, impersonally. "I wish you a merry Christmas and all good things-and Martha too." His manner was quite different when he spoke to Martha. It was almost affectionate. "Good-by."

He was turning away. The princess was frightened. If he was going to be stupid enough to take her at her word!

"Oh, wait!" she cried; it was almost an entreaty. "It isn't a merry Christmas at all. It is very rude of you to go away so, when I when I have-stopped you." You might have thought, from her voice, that there were tears in her eyes, but there weren't. Her eyes only looked frightened, though I don't know what there was to frighten her. "What were you going to say-if I were a common person ?"

“Like me,” he corrected.

"Like you," said the princess, nodding slowly. She had hard work not to say "I" before "like;" but it wouldn't have done, and, besides, it wouldn't have been strictly trueand there were Michael and James. "Well?"

"Why, I was about to say," he continued, "that, if you would only be a common person like me, and if we were to play together again, you wouldn't mind walking-you and Martha."

The princess looked at Martha, a light in her eyes. Martha smiled at her.

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Walking in this storm-this gentle storm-is very nice," he said, enticingly.

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Well, why not, Martha?" asked the princess. "Will you go? Would you just as lief?" "Bless you, dearie," answered Martha, "I'd liefer."

For Martha, you know, wasn't of the royal family, and she got very tired of riding in carriages and motor cars and sleighs.

And they got out into the snow-James had to be spry about getting down to them-and the little princess spoke to Michael.

"You may as well go home, Michael," she said. "We will walk."

So Michael drove off; and if he and James had something to talk about it is not to be wondered at. And if you had been there, behind Michael, you might have heard a great deal about blessing her little heart, and hoping that she might be happy in her own way, though you might be excused for thinking that a princess with a million dollars a year would have nothing left to wish for.

Indeed, why she should not have been happy →very happy—and in her own way, I cannot imagine. A person, to be truly happy, must do it in his own way- -or hers-and not in another's. But it is to be supposed that Michael and James didn't know what they were talking about, anyway.

When Michael had driven off, the little princess drew a long breath and breathed it out in a long, shivering sigh of happiness, and laughed a little laugh of happiness and turned to Somebody-or no, I am mistaken. She could not have turned to him then, for she was turned toward him already.

"Well," she said; "and now where are you are we going?"

He was standing still in the snow, looking at her; he just looked at her and didn't say a word. And the little princess got redder and redder, for, at first, she thought she saw a light in his eyes-but that was only at first. Afterward she didn't see it, for she looked away.

"Don't you know," she said, softly, coming a little bit nearer to him-just a tiny bit nearer- -"that it is very rude to stare so? And you haven't answered my question. Where are we going now?"

"I beg your pardon," he said, coming to himself. "I forgot. I was going out this road a bit to see an old servant of ours; but now, I don't know-I can go later."

He spoke slowly, s till looking at her, feasting his eyes, as if he saw her for the first time in years and was glad to see her again. And so he did and so he was, gladder even than he had thought he should be. He hadn't expected to see her-so close—ever again; he hadn't meant to.

"No, go now," said the little princess, "and I—we will go with you. It must be somebody I know. Do I?"

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Yes," he answered, "you know himand her."

"Oh!" cried the princess. "Is it—well, come on, then."

So they started off, walking briskly, with Martha at a discreet distance behind them. And just what is a discreet distance I don't know. It depends; but Martha walked just out of hearing-if they spoke low. The The little princess thought she never had known such a beautiful day for walking. Everything

was just as lovely as it could be. They had not spoken for some time; but the princess had a question that bothered her.

"What was it," she asked-she spoke low, too" that you forgot? You know you said that you—"

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For

He smiled. He knew exactly. that I forgot. I forgot the five years. a moment you were the little girl I used to play with, and you were not a little princess at all—"

"Oh," cried the princess, interrupting, "I'm not, now. I'm not a princess at all. And-"

"And you weren't so rich, either-not nearly so rich," he interrupted in his turn. Ah, your Royal Highness," he said, and his voice was cold and warm and serious and

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'If you want to make me cry," said the princess in a stifled little voice, "you will keep on."

"God forbid !" cried he; and he looked down at her. "What am I that I should make your Royal Highness cry?"

And as he looked at her he saw two tears roll down upon the snow, and then two more. She looked up at him. Her eyes were swimming.

"Oh, don't," she cried. "I can't help being rich, can I? I hate it all-positively hate it. Oh, I wish I didn't have a cent— not one cent !"

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If you didn't have a cent," he said, "I could-it would be easier, wouldn't it? Forgive me. Will you?"

He took her hand and drew it within his arm; but Martha was farther behind than ever, and she seemed to be interested in watching the falling snow. The princess was happy again.

"I will," she said; "and you must promise me something too. Always forget the five years and that I am rich-richer than I was. Will you always forget it? You haven't come to any of my parties in all that time, and I have asked you to every single one-every single one. Why haven't you come? And why do I never see you at other places? When you are there, you don't come near me. Why?"

He said nothing for some time; for so long a time that the princess glanced up at him rather fearfully. He was looking down. at her, and his look was very tender and pitying-for both. But then he was very much older than the princess-four whole years older and he saw things differently.

It was to be expected that a mature man of twenty-two, who was no prince, would see some things in life that a princess, who was intent upon nothing more than her own happiness, would not see. Poor princesses! For there is nothing else for them to think of ; and how seldom-how very seldom they attain it!

She just gave one glance and then looked down, and he spoke, very soberly and solemnly.

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'Princess," he said, "you must know why. It was not because I didn't want to. You may be sure of that. But what chance would I have honestly and honorably-what would be thought of me? What-"

The little princess was clinging fast to his arm. She did not look at him. "You would have as good a chance as the others," she said, in a voice so low that he had to stoop to hear it. "You would have a better chance -much better." She was very red, that little princess, when she had done, and her voice was very faint indeed.

He was rather white and there were lines about his mouth that suddenly made him look old even older than twenty-two. But what he was doing was hard for him—as hard as it would be for you or me to do something less foolish, perhaps. Who is to judge what is wise and what is foolish? And he thought that he was about to do something rather noble.

"Princess," he said, gently, bending down to her, "listen. You have a right to hear it. I love you. It has been growing for three years. But you are very rich, and I—am not. I would not do. I am not fit-not fit. Your father would think so—and he would be right enough. I can give you up if I must if I stay away; and I must."

"But I don't want to be given up," cried the princess. "I won't be given up! And my father wouldn't-if I wanted-" She broke off there. She almost broke down. She had gone white, too, with fear. But she would have the moon yet. To the little princess the moon seemed greatly to be desired.

She stopped and faced him, forgetting Martha, there behind; forgetting all but the one thing that was more important to her than everything else in the world. She was not concerned about doing something noble. It was only her happiness that was slipping away. But she would not let her happiness

go-she had gone so far-she did not mean to let it slip away from her without a struggle. She looked at him with earnest eyes.

"Do you really love me? Is it true?"

And he saw her white soul-it was shrinking a little, that poor, gentle little soul, shining out of her eyes as he looked in. "Don't," he said. "Don't look at me like that. And see, princess," he went on, softly. "Even you can ask me if it's true. Don't you see what your father would think--what everybody else must think, if I—"

Tears came into the lovely eyes and drowned the soul within. 66 Oh, what do you care?" she said. "What do we care what people think or what they say? If you really love me, think of me, wanting only-only you !" The tears overflowed at that, and dropped upon his coat. "And you would give me up!"

It was a reproach-a reproach that he deserved. He was silent for a moment, and in that moment he saw himself the selfish

fool he was. It did not raise his opinion of himself. He was ashamed, very much ashamed, and very thankful. He was a good enough fellow after all, this Somebody. He took the princess's hand that was fluttering about his coat, waiting to be taken-he took it in both of his and kissed it.

"Dear little princess!" he whispered. "Dear little princess! I came very near being a fool-very near. Can you forgive me? I am-am very much ashamed." And the little princess snuggled up to him. "Oh, yes," she said. Oh, yes." She meant to hold her happiness fast, now that she had it, and so did he.

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He laughed joyously. "Give you up!" he said. "And I thought it rather fine!"

They were alone on that road-excepting for Martha, and she was far behind, and more than ever interested in the storm-and there were only scattered houses. Andwhat would you have done? The little princess gave a contented little sigh.

"Think!" she said, smiling up at him. "Think! If you had insisted on giving me up-after what I had done! I should be so ashamed!" She was interrupted for a moment. "I haven't any other Christmas present for you. Do you do you think that that I will do ?"

Le Roy est mort. Vive le Roy! And the poor king who was dead-he didn't knowhe is to be forgiven.

"T

THE SPECTATOR

HIS way to the elevators. The promenade on eighth floor, from two to four," said the polite floorwalker, and added, to Mrs. Spectator: "You'd better see it, madam. You'll find it well worth while, for all the new Paris fashions are shown on living models." After that there was nothing for the Spectator to do but to follow meekly while Mrs. Spectator made for the eighth floor.

It was still five minutes to two, but the spacious room on the eighth floor already needed the S. R. O. sign-Standing Room Only-although there were no reserved seats. At the end of the room a Moorish scene, with arcaded and arched Saracenic doorways, all in gay Oriental color, was set up. A dais against the walls held the musicians, who were playing queer Eastern music, jangling and barbaric. From the last arched door, screened by tightly drawn curtains, a short flight of shallow steps led down to a high and narrow platform which wound like an S amid the audience, whose seats were placed in rising tiers on each side, and already crowded to the limit, "like a queer little intimate theater," as Mrs. Spectator expressed it, as she took up her standing-room behind the last row of orchestra chairs, close by the mysterious door.

"Lots of people come here instead of going to the matinée," said the woman in front, talking to a companion. They were from one of the suburbs, and had come in to shop and to see. "Last year the exhibition wasn't as good as this, but even then the place was fairly well filled. You could come up at the last minute, though, and see it pretty well. Now you have to come early to get a seat at all. I want to see the Poiret things, with those wired tunics. Isn't it astonishing how many men there are here-buyers, I suppose !" The Spectator had been rather astonished by that, too—and reassured, for no man likes to venture lonely among feminine mysteries, since the days of Clodius and the Bona Dea.

A bright orange-colored programme, printed in gorgeous purple tones, had been handed to each comer by the ushers at the

door, setting forth that the department store presented

THE LATEST

MINARET AND TURKISH MODES

IN

LA PROMENADE DES TOILETTES

and the Spectator gasped as he contemplated the ladies on the cover. Was it possible, in an every-day New York department store, that such Gallicized houris from "The Garden of Allah " could really appear in the flesh? Having learned to take theatrical programmes with a grain of salt, he naturally doubted, and so was not prepared for what followed.

The orchestra struck a discord in true Turkish style. The curtains parted. Inside the doorway, an alcove hung in scarlet satin was flooded with dazzling light, concentrated upon a figure that at the first blush seemed to be out of the "Arabian Nights." Turning in terror to his programme, he found, to his great relief, that this was one of "the first showing in America of costumes worn in 'Le Minaret" at the Théâtre Renaissance in Paris." Comforted by the assurance that it was not meant for promenading on Fifth Avenue, the Spectator gave his critical attention to Paul Poiret's latest vagary, amid a buzz of interest rising from the packed audience.

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Holding the pose rigidly, in the Byzantine style, with perfectly immobile and painted face fixed in the smile of a French doll, the model stood in the glare of light a while; then, with slow and sidewise motion, undulated down the steps and moved along the platform between rows of eager eyes. A tight black velvet turban-like cap, with butterfly antennæ, somewhat resembling the headdress of Mephistopheles in "Faust," was pulled down over her blonde hair and covered even her ears. An equally tight black velvet bodice, richly embroidered, a wide silk sash, three accordion-plaited scarlet gauze flounces, one above the other, edged with black and wired out, and white gauze Turkish trousers below them, completed the costume (in whose description Mrs. Spectator has helped out the mere masculine mind). As with slow, proud motion, apparently oblivious of the audience, the model moved away from the steps-it

was excellently done, and somehow removed her from the same category as a chorus girl or a saleswoman or an artist's model, and made her an abstract fashion-plate-the music sounded again, the curtains parted afresh, and another vision from "Minaret " circles stood revealed.

"See!" said a youthful voice behind the Spectator. "Good show, and don't cost anything, either!" It was a sharp-faced lad, who, with a companion, was enjoying himself hugely. "Look at that dame! Ain't

she the limit ?" This time the effect was of a leopard crossed with a lamp-shade. The bodice and the swaying, tilting tunic, wired out stiffly at the knee, were of filmy leopardpatterned stuff. From beneath the lampshade came white accordion-plaited chiffon Turkish trousers, and the effect of the whole was weird in the extreme. "She'd better go in!" said the suburban lady, severely. But, instead of that, she slithered down the steps with a balancing, careful motion-the Spectator noticed that all the models found difficulty in getting down those steps with dignity and paraded swaying along the narrow platform.

A third chord, a third parting of the curtains, a third bizarre figure, this time in rows of blonde curls, rows of white chiffon ruffles to the knees wired out, and tight white satin skirt, with the inevitable slit-and the three Minaret novelties were over. After that, one evening gown after another, from Callot, Doucet, Premet, Paquin, Drecoll, and a long list of others, posed in the fierce light and descended the steps, each with some kinship to the freakish mode. Each had its name on the programme-"La Pagode," in tiers of mauve and copper; "La Vapoureuse,” white tulle trimmed with skunk fur; "Le Soleil Levant," chiffon to represent an Oriental sunset, trimmed with gold lace and Turkish beads; "" Papillon," black and white tulle trimmed with rhinestones; and so on. The Spectator clung to his programme and studied it deeply, as this report shows; but he could not understand (nor could Mrs. Spectator enlighten him) as to why a "white crêpe combined with Turkish green satin and trimmed with black lace" should be called "Theodore," or why a black satin with green and gold adjuncts should be named "Tartuffe." Like a group of proud and painted peacocks curiously removed from

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"I saw the models in Paris this summer,' said a dressmaker behind the Spectator. "They had a small stage and music at Lucile's, but nothing like this. At Callot's, though, they gave us afternoon tea, because we had been going the rounds all day, and had had no time for lunch. There's a Russian painter now who is making weirder designs than Poiret, all Cubist-patterned things, but very artistic. The tunic, of course, is the thing to insist on."

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Let's go!" said Mrs. Spectator, satiated at last by a flame-colored velvet embroidered in gold; and, after a breathless five minutes of extrication from the throng, the elevators were reached. In the corner, this side of them, a couple were standing-a young salesman, his book and pencil in his pocket, and a little gray-haired woman, in a nondescript wrap and a shabby bonnet, bidding him goodby with the mother-look in her eyes. can't come up again for a good while to see you," she was saying; "your father's that sick I can't leave him. You're a good boy, Jim. You're my best comfort." He gave her a hug, shabby, fashionless embodiment of woman at her dearest that she was, as the elevator came clanging up and the moment of parting came. What did the flaring parade of grotesque gowns in the garish room beyond matter? The woman-soul that leadeth upward and on is always with the world, and Every woman knows that that's all that really counts!" said Mrs. Spectator, softly.

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