CHAPTER II.
BY JUSTIN H. McCARTHY, M. P.
KISMET.
But, ah, that Spring should vanish with the rose.
That youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close.
"Hulloa, Jacynth!"
Jacynth awoke from his reverie with a start and stared at the speaker. He had quite forgotten where he was. Through the gray smoke of his cigarette he had conjured, as from some magic vapor, an enchanting face—a girl's face—with hazel eyes and wonderful tan-colored hair. He had been in dreamland, and now he was only in the gardens of the hotel, and instead of his exquisite vision he found facing him a fat little man in white linen, who looked very hot and very jolly.
"I say, Jacynth, don't you remember me?"
Jacynth did not remember, at least fully. He had a dim consciousness that the fat little figure ought to be familiar to him, but he could not remember where or why. He had not quite collected himself yet, and he was slightly annoyed at the
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