An aristocratic pallor refined his face, he was neatly booted and gloved, the elegant lines of the Pole's supple figure were displayed in a morning frock coat, and his chapeau de soie was virginal in its gloss.
"Some of my own twenty pounds," mused Alan Hawke, as he gayly sprang out and saluted his dupe.

"Ah! There you are.

You look to-day the old Casimir.

Let us have a few last words before the boat arrives." Hardened as he was, Alan Hawke was surprised at the childlike lightness of the Pole's manner when they encountered the fresh young beauties who were already the cynosure of all eyes upon the morning boat.

The storm of emotion had spent itself, and while Alan Hawke squired, the aggressive Miss Genie, Casimir Wieniawski was bending over the slightly dreamy and more romantic Miss Phenie! They distributed themselves in open order, as they strolled along toward the drawbridge of that most hospitable of old horrors, Chillon Castle.
It was a day of days, and the artful Hawke laughed as he smoked his cigar upon a rustic bench in the castle Garden.