The Detroit Times

THE EVENING STORY
MISS MARSTON'S MARQUIS.
By Stuart B. Stone.

Miss Lucile Marston sat in the little, secluded alcove and dreamed. Beyond, in the great, flaring reception hall, Miss Marston's own cousin—Julia, the beautiful heiress—swung past on the arm of an officer. Heigh-ho! Miss Marston sighed—sighed for all in this world that she had not: "The Marquis!" gasped Miss Marston. She sighed for all that her thrice fair and wealthy young cousin possessed. It was hard to be the poor, plain cousin of a rich and handsome favorite.

A light step sounded without. A little, slender gentleman, Vandyke-bearded, bristling-mustached, monocled, peered into the alcove, smiled beamingly and extended his hand. "Ah—eet ees Mees Marston? I haf the honor great. I am dee-light. I—ze marquis—am gratify—much!"

Miss Marston turned fourteen varying tints of pink and rose. She started up, sank back, extended her hand, dropped it, smiled, frowned, and sought the floor with her eyes. "I—I am Miss Marston," she admitted, "but—you—I have not the pleasure—"

The little gentleman bowed almost to the shining hardwood floor. "Ah, ze pleazair—eet ees mine—all mine, please, marquis."

"The marquis!" gasped Miss Marston. The fourteen rose tints deepened. "I roam me about ze ball room," explained the Marquis Virabeau. "I am lonesome—ver' lonesome—ah, mees! An' zen I see—I behold—who? Mon Dieu—eet ees you—ze Mees Marston beautiful, lofely—ze most. Zen I am—what you say—stuck—ah, stuck much! At once I come! I adore. Za introduc-shon—heem I do not wait for—heem I cannot wait for. Pardonnez—but no!"

Miss Marston's head spun round and round. Her blood tingled; her throat was dry. It was with the greatest difficulty that she spoke. "But surely—you do not mean to say that you—a marquis of France—really care for me at first sight?"

For the second time the Marquis Virabeau kow-towed to the parquetted floor. "Eet ees true—by heaven so high. May I not haf ze hope? ze lit tle encouragement?"

Miss Marston sighed and extended her hand. "I have heard of you. It is very wonderful—and I am happy, marquis, very happy—for I am drawn to you, too. But it is all surpassing strange—that you—a marquis of France—should at first sight love me—a poor, undowered girl, on the mere edge of the social whirl."

The marquis straightened up. "How, pleaze? You say 'poor'—wizout ze dow-er?"

Miss Marston nodded, a great fear tugging at her heart. "Yes, poor, marquis—not a dollar—not a sou."

The Marquis Virabeau took a step backward. "What!" he almost screamed: "not ze reech Mees Marston? Ees eet possible I make ze meestake?"

Lucile Marston bowed, white as the lilies of the alcove, heartsore, aweary of the unfeeling world and its ways. "Ah," murmured the Marquis Virabeau, "zen I make ze meestake. Mam'zelle, I apologize—I ask ze par-don, please." And he was gone.

Miss Marston sat, crushed, broken in spirit, dream-shattered. At last she roused from the unpleasant revery and sought out her wraps. As she passed a rose-filled bower she heard the mur-mur of voices. Some strangely famili-ar note caused her to halt, to peer through the thorns and blossoms. A little man knelt upon the parquetted floor at the feet of a beautiful woman. The man was the Marquis Virabeau—the woman was Miss Julia Marston. The marquis was speaking in passion-ate accents. "Ah—when first I see mam-selle, I adore—I worship—I cannot wait for ze introduc-shon!"

Lucile Marston walked on. As she passed down the steps she laughed bitterly.