Chapter 2

How do you know I won't
examine your packet as soon as you clear out?"

Halkett looked up with his quick and winning smile:

"I'll take that risk."

"Why? You don't know me."

"I had a good look at you in the market square before I spoke to you."

"Oh. You think you are a psychologist?"

"Of sorts. It's a part of my business in life."

"Suppose," said Warner, smiling, "you explain a little more clearly to
me exactly what is your actual business in life."

"Very glad to. I write."

"Books?"

"No; just--stories."

"Fiction?"

"As one might say, facts rather than fiction."

"You are a realist?" suggested Warner with slight irony.

"I try to be. But do you know, there is more romance in realism than in
fairy tales?"

Warner, considerably diverted, nodded:

"I know. You belong to the modern school, I take it."

"Very modern. So modern, in fact, that my work concerns tomorrow rather
than today."

Warner nodded again:

"I see. You are a futurist--opportunist. There are a lot of clever men
working on those lines in England.... Still--" he glanced amusedly at
Halkett "--that scarcely explains your rather unusual request. Why
should I take charge of an envelope for _you_?"

"My dear fellow, I can't answer that.... Still--I may say this much;
I'm hard put to it--rather bewildered--had a rotten time of it in the
Grand Duchy and in Belgium--so to speak--"

"What do you mean by a rotten time?"

"Rows."

"I don't understand. You'll have to be more explicit."

"Well--it had to do with this envelope I carry. Some chaps of sorts
wanted to get it away from me. Do you see? ... I had a lively time, and
I rather expect to have another before I get home--if I ever get there."

Warner looked at him out of clear, sophisticated eyes:

"See here, my ingenuous British friend," he said, "play square with me,
if you play at all."

"I shan't play otherwise."

"Very well, then; why are you afraid to carry that envelope?"

"Because," said Halkett, coolly, "if I'm knocked on the head and that
envelope is found in my clothing and is stolen, the loss of my life
would be the lesser loss to my friends."

"Is anybody trying to _kill_ you?"

Halkett shrugged his shoulders; but there seemed to be neither swagger
nor bravado in his careless gesture of assent. He said:

"Listen; here's my case in brief. I saw you in the crowd yonder, and I
made up my mind concerning you. I have to think quickly sometimes; I
took a good look at you and--" He waved one hand. "You look like a
soldier. I don't know whether you are or not. But I am ready to trust
you. That's all."

"Do you mean to say that you are in any real personal danger?"

"Yes. But that doesn't count. I can look out for myself. What worries
me is this envelope. Couldn't you take charge of it? I'd be very
grateful."

"How long do you expect me to carry it about?"

"I don't know. I don't know whether anything is likely to happen to me
today in this town--or tomorrow on the train--or in Paris--I have no
means of knowing. I merely want to get to Paris, if I can, and send a
friend back here for that envelope."

"I thought you were to return for it yourself."

"Maybe. Maybe I'll send you a letter by a friend--just a line for him
to give you, saying it's all right."

"Mr. Halkett, you have rather a disconcerting way of expressing
unlimited confidence in me--"

"Yes, I trust you."

"But _why_?"

"You look right."

"That's no reason!"

"My dear chap, I'm in a corner, and instinct rules, not reason! You
see, I--I'm rather afraid they may get me before I can clear out."

"_Who'll_ get you?" demanded Warner impatiently.

"That's the worst of it; I don't know these fellows by sight. The same
chaps never try it on twice."

Warner said quietly:

"What is this very dramatic mess you're in? Can't you give me a hint?"

"I'm sorry."

"Shall I give _you_ a hint?"

"If you like."

"Are the _police_ after you?"

"No."

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure. I don't blame you for asking. It looks that way. But it
isn't."

"But you are being followed across Europe by people who want this
envelope of yours?"

"Oh, yes."

"You expect personal violence from them?"

Halkett nodded and gazed absently down the almost deserted boulevard.

"Then why don't you appeal to the police--if your conscience is clear?"
demanded Warner bluntly.

Halkett's quick smile broke out.

"My dear chap," he said, "I'd do so if I were in England. I can't, as
matters stand. The French police are no use to me."

"Why don't you go to your consulate?"

"I did. The Consul is away on his vacation. And I didn't like the
looks of the vice-consul."

"What?"

"No. I didn't like his name, either."

"What do you mean?"

"His name is Schmidt. I--didn't care for it."

Warner laughed, and Halkett looked up quickly, smiling.

"I'm queer. I admit it. But you ought to have come to some conclusion
concerning me by this time. Do you think me a rotter, or a criminal, or
a lunatic, or a fugitive from justice? Or will you chance it that I'm
all right, and will you stand by me?"

Warner laughed again:

"I'll take a chance on you," he said. "Give me your envelope, you
amazing Britisher!"

*CHAPTER II*

Halkett cast a rapid glance around him; apparently he saw nothing to
disturb him. Then he whipped out from his pocket a long, very thin
envelope and passed it to Warner, who immediately slipped it into the
breast pocket of his coat.

"That's very decent of you," said Halkett in a low voice. His
attractive face had grown serious and a trifle pale. "I shan't forget
this," he said.

Warner laughed.

"You're a very convincing Englishman," he said. "I can't believe you're
not all right."

"I'm right enough. But you are _all_ white. What is your name?"

"I had better write it out for you."

"No. If things go wrong with me, I don't want your name and address
discovered in my pockets. Tell it to me; I'll remember."

Warner looked at him rather gravely for a moment, then:

"James Warner is my name. I'm a painter. My present address is La
Peche d'Or at Sais."

"By any chance," asked Halkett, "are you the military painter, James
Warner, whose pictures we know very well in England?"

"I don't know how well my pictures are known in England. I usually
paint military subjects."

"I _knew_ you were right!" exclaimed Halkett. "Any man who paints the
way you paint _must_ be right! Fancy my actually knowing the man who did
'Lights Out' and 'The Last Salute'!"

Warner laughed, coloring a little.

"Did you really like those pictures?"

"Everybody liked them. I fancy every officer in our army owns a colored
print of one or more of your pictures. And to think I should run across
you in this God-forsaken French town! And to think it should be _you_
who is willing to stand by me at this pinch! Well--I judged you
rightly, you see."

Warner smiled, then his features altered.

"Listen, Halkett," he said, dropping instinctively the last trace of
formality with a man who, honest or otherwise, was plainly of his own
caste. "I have tried to size you up and I can't. You say you are a
writer, but you look to me more like a soldier. Anyway, I've concluded
that you're straight. And, that being my conviction, can't I do more
for you than carry an envelope about for you?"

"That's very decent of you, Warner. No, thanks, there is nothing else
you could do."

"I thought you said you are likely to get into a row?"

"I am. But I don't know when or where. Besides, I wouldn't drag you
into anything like that."

"Where are you stopping in Ausone?"

"At the Boule d'Argent. I got in only an hour before I met you."

"Do you still believe you are being followed?"

"I have been followed so far. Maybe I've lost them. I hope so."

Warner said:

"I came into town to buy canvases and colors. That's how I happen to be
in Ausone. It's only an hour's drive to Sais. Why don't you come back
with me? Sais is a pretty hamlet. Few people have ever heard of it.
The Golden Peach is an excellent inn. Why don't you run down and lie
snug for a while? It's the last place on earth anybody would think of
looking for a man who's done--what I suppose _you've_ done."

Halkett, who had been listening with a detached smile, jerked his head
around and looked at Warner.

"What do you suppose I've done?" he asked coolly.

"I think you're a British officer who has been abroad after military
information--and that you've got it--in this envelope."

Halkett's expressionless face and fixed eyes did not alter. But he said
quietly:

"You are about the only American in France who might have been likely to
think that. Isn't it the devil's own luck that I should pick _you_ for
my friend in need?"

Warner shrugged:

"You need not answer that implied question of mine, Halkett. My theory
concerning you suits me. Anyway, I believe you _are_ in trouble. And I
think you'd better come back to Sais with me."

"Thinking what you think, do you still mean to stand by me?"

"Certainly. I don't _know_ what's in your damned envelope, do I? Very
well; I don't wish to know. Shall we stroll back to the Boule
d'Argent?"

"Right-o! What a devilish decent chap you are, Warner!"

"Oh, no; I'm a gambler by disposition. This business amuses me!"

"Are you stopping at the Boule d'Argent, too?" asked Halkett after a
moment.

"I lunched there and left my stack of _toiles_ and my sack of colors
there. Also, I have a dogcart and a horse in the stables."

They turned away together, side by side, crossed the boulevard,
traversed the deserted square in front of the beautiful old church of
Sainte Cassilda, and entered the stony rue d'Auros, which led directly
into the market square.

The ancient town of Ausone certainly seemed to be very much _en fete_,
and the rue d'Auros--the main business thoroughfare--was crowded with
townspeople, country folk, and soldiers on leave, clustering not only
all over the sidewalks, but in the middle of the streets and squares,
filling the terraces of the cafes and the courts of the two hotels, the
Boule d'Argent and the Hotel des Voyageurs.

Sunlight filtered through the double rank of chestnut trees in full
leaf; the shade was even denser and cooler by the stone bridge where,
between stone walls, the little stony river flowed, crystal clear. Here
women and young girls, in holiday attire, sat on the benches, knitting
or chatting with their friends; children played along the stone
embankment, where beds of brilliant flowers bloomed; the red trousers of
soldiers and the glittering brass helmets of firemen added a gayety to
the color and movement.

"They're a jolly people, these French," remarked Halkett.

"They're very agreeable to live among."

"You've lived in France for some time?"

"Yes," said Warner. "My headquarters are in Paris, but every summer I
take a class of American art students--girls--to Sais for outdoor
instruction. I've half a dozen there now, plugging away at _Plein Air_."

"Do you like to teach?"

"Well, not particularly. It interferes with my own work. But I have to
do it. Painting pictures doesn't keep the kettle boiling."

"I see."

"I don't really mind it. Sais is a charming place; I've known it for
years. Besides, a friend of mine lives there--an American woman, Madame
de Moidrey. Her sister, Miss Brooks, is one of the young girls in my
class. So it makes it agreeable; and Madame de Moidrey is very
hospitable."

Halkett smiled.

"Painters," he said, "have, proverbially, a pretty good time in life."

"Soldiers do, too; don't they?"

Halkett's smile became fixed.

"I've heard so. The main thing about a profession is to choose one
which will take you out of doors."

"Yours does. You can sit under a tree and write your stories, can't
you?"

The Englishman laughed:

"Of course I can. That's the beauty of realism; all you have to do is
to walk about outdoors and jot down a faithful description of everything
you see."

They had reached the little stone _quai_ under the chestnut and lime
trees; the cool ripple of the river mingled with the laughter of young
girls and the gay voices of children at play made a fresh and cheerful
sound in the July sunshine.

They leaned against the mossy river wall and looked out under the trees
across the square which surged with people. Flags fluttered from booths
and white tents; the blare of bands, the tumult of wooden shoes, the
noises of domestic creatures, and human voices all mingled with the
unceasing music from the merry-go-rounds.

Across the esplanade there was a crowd around the Cafe de Biribi--people
constantly passing to and fro--and strains of lively music leaked out
from within.

After a moment Warner suggested that they go over and have something
light and cool to drink.

"I've never been in there," he remarked, as they started, "but I've
always intended to go. It's kept by a rascal named Wildresse--a
sporting man, fight promoter, and an ex-gambler. You've heard of the
Cabaret Wildresse in Paris, haven't you?"

"I think I have," replied Halkett. "It was an all night place on the
Grand Boulevard, wasn't it?"

"Yes; opposite the Grand Hotel. This is the same proprietor. He's an
American--a shady sort of sport--and he certainly must have been a
pretty bad lot, because the police made him leave Paris six years
ago--what for, I don't know--but they fired him out, and he started his
cabaret business here in Ausone. You hear of it everywhere. People
come even from Nancy and Liege and Louvain to dance, and dine
here--certain sorts of people, I mean. The cuisine is celebrated. There
are cockfights and other illegal attractions."

The Cabaret Biribi formed the corner of the square. It was a detached
stucco structure surrounded by green trees and pretty shrubbery; and in
the rear the grounds ran down to the river, where a dozen rowboats were
moored along that still, glassy reach of water which extends for several
miles south of Ausone between meadows and pleasantly wooded banks.

They found the Cabaret Biribi crowded when they went in; a lively young
person was capering on the little stage at the end of the dancing floor,
and singing while capering; soldiers and civilians, with their own or
other people's sweethearts, sat at the zinc tables, consuming light beer
and wine and syrups; a rather agreeable stringed orchestra played
intermittently.

Waiters scurried about with miraculously balanced trays on high; old man
Wildresse roamed furtively in the background, his gorilla arms behind
his back, his blunt fingers interlocked, keeping a sly and ratty eye on
waiters and guests, and sometimes on the young woman cashier who lounged
listlessly upon her high chair behind the wire cage, one rather lank leg
crossed over the other, and her foot swinging in idle time to the music.

The moment that Warner and Halkett appeared in the doorway, looking
about them to find a table, Wildresse crossed the floor and said to his
cashier in a whisper:

"It's one of those men. Schmidt's description might fit either. If
they don't make eyes at you and ask you to dance and drink with them,
come over and join them anyway. And I want you to pump them dry. Do
you hear?"

"Yes, I hear."

Warner looked across the room at her again when he and Halkett were
seated. She had considerable paint on her cheeks, and her lips seemed
too red to be natural. Otherwise she was tragically young, thin,
excepting her throat and cheeks--a grey-eyed, listless young thing with
a mass of chestnut hair crowning her delicately shaped head.

She made change languidly for waiter and guest; acknowledged the salutes
of those entering and leaving without more than a politely detached
interest; smiled at the jests of facetious customers with mechanical
civility when importuned; and, when momentarily idle, swung her long,
slim foot in time to the music and rested her painted cheek on one hand.

Her indifferent grey eyes, sweeping the hall, presently rested on
Warner; and remained on him with a sort of idle insolence until his own
shifted.

Halkett was saying:

"You know that girl--the cashier, I mean--is extraordinarily pretty.
Have you noticed her, Warner?"

Warner turned again:

"I've been looking at her. She's rather thickly tinted, isn't she?"

"Yes. But in spite of the paint. She has a charmingly shaped head.
Some day she'll have a figure."

"Oh, yes; figures and maturity come late to that type.... If you'll
notice, Halkett, those hands of hers are really exquisite. So are her
features--the nose is delicate, the eyes beautifully drawn--she's all in
good drawing--even her mouth, which is a little too full. As an
amateur, don't you agree with me?"

"Very much so. She's a distinct type."

"Yes--there's a certain appeal about her.... It's odd, isn't it--the
inexplicable something about some women that attracts. It doesn't
depend on beauty at all."

Halkett sipped his Moselle wine.

"No, it doesn't depend on beauty, on intelligence, on character, or on
morals. It's in spite of them--in defiance, sometimes. Now, take that
thin girl over there; her lips and cheeks are painted; she has the
indifferent, disenchanted, detached glance of the too early wise. The
chances are that she isn't respectable. And in spite of all that,
Warner--well--look at her."

"I see. A man could paint a troubling portrait of her--a sermon on
canvas."

"Just as she sits there," nodded Halkett.

"Just as she sits there, chin on palm, one lank leg crossed over the
other, and her slim foot dangling.... And the average painter would make
her seem all wrong, Halkett; and I might, too, except for those clear
grey eyes and their childish indifference to the devil's world outside
their ken." He inspected her for a moment more, then: "Yes, in spite of
rouge and other obvious elementals, I should paint her as she really is,
Halkett; and no man in his heart would dare doubt her after I'd
finished."

"That's not realism," remarked Halkett, laughing.

"It's the vital essence of it. You know I'm something of a gambler.
Well, if I painted that girl as she sits there now, in this noisy,
messy, crowded cabaret, with the artificial tint on lip and cheek--if I
painted her just as she appears to us, and in all the insolently
youthful relaxation of her attitude--I'd be gambling all the while with
myself that the soul inside her is as clean as a flame; and I'd paint
that conviction into her portrait with every brush stroke! What do you
think of that view of her?"

"As you Americans say, you're some poet," observed Halkett, laughingly.

"A poet is an advanced psychologist. He begins where scientific
deduction ends."

"That's what makes your military pictures so convincing," said Halkett,
with his quick smile. "It's not only the correctness of details and the
spirited drawing and color, but you _do_ see into the very souls of the
men you paint, and their innermost characters are there, revealed in the
supreme crisis of the moment." He smiled quietly. "I'll believe it if
_you_ say that young girl over there is quite all right."

"I'd paint her that way, anyhow."

The singing on the stage had ceased from troubling, and the stringed
orchestra was playing one of the latest and most inane of dance steps.
A clumsy _piou-piou_ got up with his fresh-cheeked partner; other
couples rose from the sloppy tables, and in another moment the dancing
floor was uncomfortably crowded.

It was a noisy place; a group of summer touring students from Louvain,
across the border, were singing "La Brabanconne"--a very patriotic and
commendable attempt, but it scarcely harmonized with the dance music.
Perspiring waiters rushed hither and thither, their trays piled high;
the dancers trotted and spun around and galloped about over the waxed
floor; the young girl behind her wire wicket swung her narrow foot to
and fro and gazed imperturbably out across the tumult.

"Philippa!" cried one of the Louvain students, hammering on the table
with his beer glass. "Come out from behind your _guichet_ and dance
with me!"

The girl's grey eyes turned superciliously toward the speaker, but she
neither answered nor moved her head.

The young man blew a kiss toward her and attempted to climb upon the
zinc table, but old man Wildresse, who was prowling near, tapped him on
the shoulder.

"Pas de betise!" he growled. "Soyez sage! Restez tranquille, nom de
Dieu!"

"I merely desired the honor of dancing with your charming cashier--"

"Allons! Assez! It's sufficient to ask her, isn't it? A woman dances
with whom she chooses."

And, grumbling, he walked on with his heavy sidling step, hands clasped
behind him, his big, hard, smoothly shaven face lowered and partly
turned, as though eternally listening for somebody just at his heels.
Always sidling nearer to the table where Warner and Halkett were seated,
he paused, presently, and looked down at them, shot a glance across at
the girl, Philippa, caught her eye, nodded significantly. Then,
addressing Warner and his new friend:

"Well, gentlemen," he said in English, "are you amusing yourselves in
the Cafe Biribi?"

"Sufficiently," nodded Warner.

Wildresse peeped stealthily over his shoulder, as though expecting to
surprise a listener. Then his very small black eyes stole toward
Halkett, and he furtively examined him.

"_Jour de fete_," he remarked in his harshly resonant voice. "Grand
doings in town tonight. Do you gentlemen dine here this evening?"

"I think not," said Warner.

"I am sorry. It will be gay. There are dance partners to be had for a
polite bow. You should see my little _caissiere_ yonder!" He made a
grunting sound and kissed his blunt fingers to the ceiling. "M-m-m!" he
growled. "_She_ can dance! But I don't permit her to dance very often.
Only a special client now and then----"

"May we consider ourselves special clients?" inquired Warner, amused.

"Oh, I don't say yes and I don't say no." He jerked his round, shaven
head. "It all depends on _her_. She dances with whom she pleases. And
if the Emperor of China asked her, nevertheless she should be free to
please herself."

"She's very pretty," said Halkett.

"Others have said so before you in the Cabaret de Biribi."

"Why do you call your cabaret the Cafe Biribi?" asked Warner.

"Eh? By God, I call it Biribi because I'm not ashamed of the name."

Halkett looked up into his wicked black eyes, and Wildresse wagged his
finger at him.

"Supposition," he said, "that your son is a good boy--a little lively,
but a good boy--and he comes of age and he goes with his class for two
years--three years now, and to hell with it!

"Bon! Supposition, also, that his sergeant is a tyrant, his captain an
ass, his colonel an imbecile! Bon! Given a little natural ardor--a
trifle of animal spirits, and the lad is up before the
council--bang!--and he gets his in the battalions of Biribi!"

His voice had become a sort of ominous growl.

"As for me," he said heavily, "I mock at their council and their
blockhead colonel! I accept their challenge; I do not conceal that my
son is serving in a disciplinary battalion; I salute all the battalions
of Biribi--where there are better men in the ranks than there are in
many a regiment of the line, by God! And I honor those battalions by
naming my cabaret 'Biribi.' The Government gets no change out of me!"

The man asserted too much, swaggered too obviously; and Halkett, not
suspicious but always cautious, kept his inquiring eyes fixed on him.

Warner said with a smile:

"You have the courage of your convictions, Monsieur Wildresse."

"As for that," growled Wildresse, casting another stealthy glance behind
him, "I've got courage. Courage? Who hasn't? Everybody's got courage.
It's brains the world lacks. Excuse me, gentlemen--affairs of
business--and if you want to dance with my little cashier, there is no
harm in asking her." And he shuffled away, his heavy head bent
sideways, his hands tightly clasped behind him.

"There's an evil type," remarked Halkett. "What a brute it is!"

Warner said:

"With his cropped head and his smooth, pasty face, and those unpleasant
black eyes of his, he looks like an ex-convict. It doesn't astonish me
that he has a son serving in the disciplinary battalions of Africa."

"Does it astonish you that he is the employer of that girl behind the
counter?" asked Halkett.

Warner turned to look at her again:

"It's interesting, isn't it? She seems to be another breed."

"Yes. Now, what do you make of her?"

Warner hesitated, then looked up with a laugh.

"Halkett," he said, "I'm going over to ask her to dance."

"All right; I'll hold the table," said the Englishman, amused. And
Warner rose, skirted the dancers, and walked around to the cashier's
desk, aware all the while that the girl's indifferent grey eyes were
following his movements.

*CHAPTER III*

Warner tucked his walking stick and straw hat under one arm and,
sauntering over to the cashier's desk, made a very nice and thoroughly
Continental bow to the girl behind it.

Her impartial and uninterested gaze rested on him; after a moment she
inclined her head, leisurely and in silence.

He said in French:

"Would Mademoiselle do me the honor of dancing this dance with me?"

She replied in a sweet but indifferent voice:

"Monsieur is too amiable. But he sees that I am _caissiere_ of the
establishment."

"Yet even the fixed stars of heaven dance sometimes to the music of the
spheres."

She smiled slightly:

"When one is merely a fixture _de cabaret_, one dances only to the music
of the _Sbires_! You must ask Monsieur Wildresse if I may dance with
you."

"He suggested that I ask you."

"Very well, if it's a matter of business----"

Warner laughed.

"Don't you ever dance for pleasure?" he asked in English.

She replied in English:

"Is it your theory that it would give me pleasure to dance with you?"

"It is," he said, still laughing. "But by demonstration alone are
theories proven."

The girl hesitated, her grey eyes resting on him. Then she turned her
head, drew a pencil from her chestnut hair, rapped with it on the
counter. A head waiter came speeding to her.

"Aristide, I'm going to dance," she said in the same sweetly indifferent
voice. "Have the goodness to sit in my chair until I return or Melanie
arrives."

She slid to the floor from her high seat, came out, through the wire
gate, and began to unpin her cambric apron.

The closer view revealed to him her thinness in her black gown. She was
not so tall as he had thought her, and she was younger; but he had been
right about her cheeks and lips. Both were outrageously painted.

She handed her daintily embroidered apron to the waiter, laid one hand
lightly on Warner's arm; he led her to the edge of the dancing floor,
clasped her waist and swung her with him out into the noisy whirl
beyond.

Thin, almost immature in her angular slenderness, the girl in motion
became enchantingly graceful. Supple as a sapling in the summer wind,
her hand rested feather-light in his; her long, narrow feet seemed like
shadows close above the floor, never touching it.

The orchestra ceased playing after a few minutes, but old man Wildresse,
who had been watching them, growled, "Go on!" and the music recommenced
amid plaudits and shouts of general approval.

Once, as they passed the students' table, Warner heard the voice of old
Wildresse in menacing dispute with the student who had first shouted out
an invitation to Philippa.

"She dances with whom she chooses!" roared Wildresse. "Do you
understand, Monsieur? By God, if the Grand Turk himself asked her she
should not dance with him unless she wished to!"

Warner said to her jestingly:

"Did the Grand Turk ever ask you, Philippa?"

The girl did not smile.

"Perhaps I am dancing with him now. One never knows--in a cabaret."

When the music ceased she was breathing only a trifle faster, and her
cheeks under the paint glowed softly pink.

"Could you join us?" he asked. "Is it permitted?"

"I'd like to.... Yes."

So he took her back to the table, where Halkett rose and paid his
respects gracefully; and they seated themselves and ordered a grenadine
for her.

Old Wildresse, sidling by, paused with a non-committal grunt:

"Eh bien? On s'amuse? Dis, petit galopin!"

"I'm thirsty," said the girl Philippa.

"And your _caisse_?"

"Tell them to find Melanie," she retorted indifferently.

"Bon! A _jour de fete_, too! How long are you going to be?" But as
she glanced up he winked at her.

She shrugged her shoulders, leaned forward, chose a straw, and plunged
it into the crimson depths of her iced grenadine.

Old Wildresse looked at her a moment, then he also shrugged his
shoulders and went shuffling away, always apparently distrustful of that
invisible something just behind his back.

Halkett said:

"Mr. Warner and I have been discussing an imaginary portrait of you."

"What?" The clear, grey eyes turned questioningly to him, to Warner.

The latter nodded:

"I happen to be a painter. Mr. Halkett and I have agreed that it would
be an interesting experiment to paint your portrait--_as you really
are_."

The girl seemed slightly puzzled.