told you.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Perhaps because he’s never had the time or the provocation.”

“God wot, it’s had wide circulation,” Graham laughed. “For know that I was once morganatic — or whatever you call it — king of the cannibal isles, or of a paradise of a Polynesian isle at any rate. — ’By a purple wave on an opal beach in the hush of the Mahim woods,’“ he hummed carelessly, in conclusion, and swung off from his horse.

“‘The white moth to the closing vine, the bee to the opening clover,’“ she hummed another line of the song, while The Fop nearly got his teeth into her leg and she straightened him out