"Miss Wellington," they called her at the hotel; that meant if Magellan or any other young man were about, he was keeping his distance. Miss Wellington proved to be in; she sent her maid down from her room to fetch her mail. The maid, who was as French-looking and demure as anybody's, went back and forth from the elevator with eyes down. She mailed a letter, which I didn't see, and obtained an envelope which bore the address of "The Antlers," Colorado Springs.
A guest hailed her. "Felice" he called her in Londonish tone. Obviously he was an Englishman; you might put him down as a polo player off his pony and in morning attire. He had on one of those pearl-gray velours from "Scott's," hatters to H. M. the King, Piccadilly and Old Bond Street. A genuine, that was; no counterfeit. I knew a bit about hats. His cutaway and shoes were from Piccadilly, too—from tailor and booter to H. M the King, also, or at least to H. R. H. the Prince of Wales. His manners were from the Mall. Apparently he was just arrived to meet Miss Wellington, having heard she'd dropped in from "The Springs." But I knew him; he had been the mariner at the ball who'd impressed me as
