The Wheat Princess

IT was late and the studio was already well filled when two new-comers were ushered into the room-one a woman still almost young, and still (in a kindly light) beautiful; the other a girl emphatically young, her youth riding triumphant over other qualities which in a few years would become significant. A slight, almost portentous, hush had fallen over the room as they crossed the threshold and shook hands with their host. In a group near the door a young man-it was Laurence Sybert, the first secretary of the American Embassy-broke off in the middle of a sentence with the ejaculation: 'Ah, the Wheat Princess!' 'Be careful, Sybert! She will hear you, ' the grey-haired consul-general, who stood at his elbow, warned. Sybert responded with a laugh and a half-shrug; but his tones, though low, had carried, and the girl flashed upon the group a pair of vivid hazel eyes containing a half-puzzled, halfquestioning light, as though she had caught the words but not the meaning. Her vague expression changed to one of recognition; she nodded to the two diplomats as she turned away to welcome a delegation of young lieutenants, brilliant in blue and gold and shining boots. 'Who is she?' another member of the group inquired as he adjusted a pair of eye-glasses and turned to scrutinize the American girl-she was American to the most casual observer, from the piquant details of her gown to the masterly fashion in which she handled her four young men