"And little Spanish serenades," he added.

"But if he's all bad inside?"

She raised those deep, dark eyes as a child might. She had been for ten years like one in a convent.

Covington shook his head.

"I can't explain it," he said. "Perhaps, in a way, it's because of that--because of the contrast. But I 've heard him do it. I 've heard him make a room full of those girls on Montmartre stop their dancing and gulp hard. But where--"

"Did I meet him?" she finished. "It was on the boat coming over this last time. You see-- I 'm talking a great deal about myself."

"Please go on."

He had forgotten that her face was so young. The true lines of her features were scarcely more than sketched in, though that much had been done with a sure hand. Whatever was to come, he thought, must be added. There would be need of few erasures. Up to a certain point it was the face of any of those young women of gentle breeding that he met when at home--the inheritance of the best of many generations.

As she was sitting now, her head slightly turned, the arch of one brow blended in a perfect curve into her straight, thin nose. But the mouth and chin--they were firmer than one might have expected. If, not knowing her, he had seen her driving in the Bois or upon Rotten Row, he would have been curious about her t.i.tle. It had always seemed to him that she should by rights have been Her Royal Highness Something or Other.

This was due partly to a certain air of serene security and a certain aloofness that characterized her. He felt it to a lesser degree to-night than ever before, but he made no mistake. He might be permitted to admire those features as one admires a beautiful portrait, but somewhere a barrier existed. There are faces that reflect the soul; there are faces that hide the soul.

"Please go on," he repeated, as she still hesitated.

She was trying to explain why it was that she was tempted at all to talk about herself to-night. Perhaps it was because she had been so long silent--for many years silent. Perhaps it was because Monte was so very impersonal that it was a good deal like talking out loud to herself, with the advantage of being able to do this without wondering if she were losing her wits. Then, too, after Teddy, Monte's straight-seeing blue eyes freshened her thoughts like a clean north wind. She always spoke of Monte as the most American man she knew; and by that she meant something direct and honest--something four-square.

"I met Teddy on the boat," she resumed. "I was traveling alone because--well, just because I wanted to be alone. You know, Aunt Kitty was very good to me, but I'd been with her every minute for more than ten years, and so I wanted to be by myself a little while. Right after she died, I went down to the farm--her farm in Connecticut--and thought I could be alone there. But--she left me a great deal of money, Monte."

Somehow, she could speak of such a thing to him. She was quite matter-of-fact about it.

"It was a great deal too much," she went on. "I did n't mind myself, because I could forget about it; but other people--they made me feel like a rabbit running before the hounds. Some one put the will in the papers, and people I'd never heard of began to write to me--dozens of them. Then men with all sorts of schemes--charities and gold mines and copper mines and oil wells and I don't know what all, came down there to see me: down there to the little farm, where I wanted to be alone.

Of course, I could be out to them; but even then I was conscious that they were around. Some of them even waited until I ventured from the house, and waylaid me on the road.

"Then there were others--people I knew and could n't refuse to see without being rude. I felt," she said, looking up at Monte, "as if the world of people had suddenly all turned into men, and that they were hunting me. I could n't get away from them without locking myself up, and that was just the thing I did n't want to do. In a way, I 'd been locked up all my life. So I just packed my things and took the steamer without telling any one but my lawyer where I was going."

"It's too bad they wouldn't let you alone," said Monte.

"It was like an evil dream," she said. "I did n't know men were like that."

Monte frowned.

Of course, that is just what would happen to a young woman as good-looking as she, suddenly left alone with a fortune. Her name, without a doubt, was on the mailing list of every promoter from New York to San Francisco. It was also undoubtedly upon the list of every man and woman who could presume an acquaintance with her. She had become fair game.

"Then on the boat I met Teddy," she went on. "It was difficult not to meet him."

He nodded.

"I did n't mind so much at first; he was interesting."

"Yes, he's that," admitted Monte.

"And he was very pleasant until--he began to make love to me."

If Monte knew Teddy Hamilton, this happened about the third day.

"That was very annoying," she said reminiscently. "It was annoying, not only because of Teddy, but in itself. In some ways he did it very nicely--especially when he sang in the moonlight. I suppose it was my fault that I gave him the opportunity. I could have kept myself in my stateroom, or I could have played bridge with the elderly ladies in the cabin. But, you see, that's what Aunty always made me do, and I did want to get out. I did enjoy Teddy up to that point. But I did not want to fall in love with him, or with any one else. I suppose I 'm too selfish--too utterly and completely selfish."

"To--er--to fall in love?" he questioned.

"Yes. Oh, as long as I'm making you my father confessor, I may as well be thorough." She smiled.

Monte leaned forward with sudden interest. Here was a question that at odd moments had disturbed his own peace of mind. It was Chic Warren who had first told him that in remaining a bachelor he was leading an utterly selfish life.

"Does a distaste for falling in love necessarily go back to selfishness?" he asked. "Is n't it sometimes merely a matter of temperament?"

"And temperament," she asked, "is what?"

That was altogether too abstract a problem for Monte to discuss. Yet he had his own ideas.

"It's the way you're made," he suggested.

"I doubt it, Monte," she answered. "I think it's rather the way you make yourself; because I imagine that, to start with, we are all made a good deal alike. It's just what you 'd rather do."

"And you'd rather paint?"

She considered a moment. It was as if she were trying at this time to be very honest with herself.

"I'd rather be free to paint or not," she declared. "While Aunty was alive, to paint seemed to be the only way to be free. It gave me the excuse for coming here, for getting away a few hours a day. Now--well, just to be free seems enough. I don't suppose a man knows how a woman hungers for that--for just sheer, elemental freedom."

He did not. He supposed that freedom was what women enjoyed from birth--like queens. He supposed they even had especial opportunities in that direction, and that most men were in the nature of being their humble servitors.

"It is n't that I want to do anything especially proper or improper,"

she hastened to a.s.sure him. "I have n't either the cravings or the ambitions of the new woman. That, again, is where I 'm selfish. I'd like to be"--she spoke hesitatingly--"I'd like to be just like you, Monte."

"Like me?" he exclaimed in surprise.

"Free to do just what I want to do--nothing particularly good, nothing particularly bad; free to go here or go there; free to live my own life; free to be free."

"Well," he asked, "what's to prevent?"

"Teddy Hamilton--and the others," she answered. "In a way, they take the place of Aunty. They won't let me alone. They won't believe me when I tell them I don't want them around. They seem to a.s.sume that, just because I'm not married-- Oh, they are stupid, Monte!"

Henri, who had been stealing in with course after course, refilled the gla.s.ses. He smiled discreetly as he saw her earnest face.

"What you need," suggested Monte, "is a sort of chaperon or secretary."

She shook her head.

"Would you like one yourself?" she demanded.

"It would be a good deal of a nuisance," he admitted; "but, after all--"