ittle. But she could not remember ever having known a man about whose
character, position, education and former life she was so ignorant as
she was about Arabian's.

He was still a vague sort of Cosmopolitan to her, a floating foreign man
whom she could not place. He was still the magnificent mongrel belonging
to no known breed.

Certain things about him she did know, however. She knew he was at
present living at the Charing Cross Hotel, though he said he was looking
for a flat in the West End. He spoke several languages; certainly
English, French, German and Spanish. He had some knowledge of
horseflesh, and evidently took an interest in racing. He seemed
interested, too, in finance. And he played the piano and sang.

That gift of his had surprised her. One day in the studio, when Garstin
had finished painting, and they had lingered smoking and talking, the
conversation had turned on music, and Garstin, who had some knowledge of
all the arts, had spoken about Stravinsky, whom he knew, and whose music
he professed to understand. Miss Van Tuyn had joined in, and had given
her view on _Le Sacre du Printemps_, _The Nightingale_, and other works.
Arabian had sat smoking in discreet silence, till she had said to him
bluntly:

"Do you care about music?"

And then Arabian had said that he was very fond of music, and played and
sang a little himself, but that he had been too lazy to study seriously
and had an uneducated ear.

Garstin had told him bluntly to go to the piano and show them what he
could do. And Arabian had surprised Miss Van Tuyn by at once complying
with this request, which had sounded like an order.

His performance had been the sort of thing she, having "advanced" views
on musical matters, was generally inclined to sneer at or avoid. He had
played two or three coon songs and a tango. But there had been in his
playing a sheer "musicalness," as she had called it afterwards, which
had enticed her almost against her will. And when he had sung some
little Spanish songs she had been conquered, though she had not said so.

His voice was a warm and soft tenor, and he had sung very naturally,
carelessly almost. But everything had been just right. When he had
stolen time, when he had given it back, the stealing and repayment had
been right. His expression had been charming and not overdone. There had
been at moments a delightful impudence in his singing. The touches of
tenderness had been light as a feather, but