shrank from the attendance of the Prince, who insisted on talking of the “stranger in the greenroom.”  When they arrived at the hotel, he managed, simply enough, to send the lad on some mission for Mrs. Detlor, which, he was determined, should be permanent so far as that evening was concerned.  He was soon walking alone with her on the terrace.  He did not force the conversation, nor try to lead it to the event of the evening, which, he felt, was more important than others guessed.  He knew also that she did not care to talk just then.  He had never had any difficulty in conversation with her—­they had a singular rapport.  He had traveled much, seen more, remembered everything, was shy to austerity with people who did not interest him, spontaneous with those that did, and yet was never—­save to serve a necessary purpose—­a hail fellow with any one.  He knew that he could be perfectly natural with this woman—­say anything that became a man.  He was an artist without affectations, a diplomatic man, having great enthusiasm and some outer cynicism.  He had started life terribly in earnest before the world.  He had changed all that.  In society he was a nervous organism gone cold, a deliberate, self-contained man.  But insomuch as he was chastened of enthusiasm outwardly he was boyishly earnest inwardly.

He was telling Mrs. Detlor of some incident he had seen in South Africa when sketching there for a London weekly, telling it graphically, incisively—­he was not fluent.  He etched in speech; he did not paint.  She looked up at him once or twice as if some thought was running parallel with his story.  He caught the look.  He had just come to the close of his narrative.  Presently she put out her hand and touched his arm.

“You have great tact,” she said, “and I am grateful.”

“I will not question your judgment,” he replied, smiling.  “I am glad that you think so, and humbled too.”

“Why humbled?” she laughed softly.  “I can’t imagine that.”

“There are good opinions which make us vain, others which make us anxious to live up to them, while we are afraid we can’t.”

“Few men know that kind of fear.  You are a vain race.”

“You know best.  Men show certain traits to women most.”

“That is true.  Of the most real things they seldom speak to each other, but to women they often speak freely, and it makes one shudder—­till one knows the world, and gets used to it.”

“Why shudder?” He guessed the answer, but he wanted, not from mere curiosity, to hear her say it.

“The business of life they take seriously—­money, position, chiefly money.  Life itself—­home, happiness, the affections, friendship—­is an incident, a thing to juggle with.”

“I do not know you in this satirical mood,” he answered.  “I need time to get used to it before I can reply.”

“I surprise you?  People do not expect me ever to be either serious or—­or satirical, only look to me to be amiable and merry.  ‘Your only jig-maker,’ as Hamlet said—­a sprightly Columbine.  Am I rhetorical?”