she a Tuscan?" asked old Sanders slyly.

"She is an angel!" impetuously answered the violinist.

"Then she is an American!" said the old man gallantly.

"She is an American," repeated Diotti, forgetting himself for the
instant.

"Let me see if I can guess her name," said old Sanders. "It's--it's
Mildred Wallace!" and his manner suggested a child solving a riddle.

The violinist, about to speak, checked himself and remained silent.

"I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she falls in love," abstractedly
continued the host while filling another glass.

"Pray why?" was anxiously asked.

The old man shifted his position and assumed a confidential tone and
attitude: "Signor Diotti, jealousy is a more universal passion than
love itself. Environment may develop our character, influence our
tastes and even soften our features, but heredity determines the
intensity of the two leading passions, love and jealousy. Mildred's
mother was a beautiful woman, but consumed with an overpowering
jealousy of her husband. It was because she loved him. The body-guard
of jealousy--envy, malice and hatred--were not in her composition.
When Mildred was a child of twelve I have seen her mother suffer the
keenest anguish because Mr. Wallace fondled the child. She thought the
child had robbed her of her husband's love."

"Such a woman as Miss Wallace would command the entire love and
admiration of her husband at all times," said the artist.

"If she should marry a man she simply likes, her chances for happiness
would be normal."

"In what manner?" asked the lover.

"Because she would be little concerned about him or his actions."

"Then you believe," said the musician, "that the man who loves her and
whom she loves should give her up because her chances of happiness
would be greater away from him than with him?"

"That would be an unselfish love," said the elder.

"Suppose they have declared their passion?" asked Diotti.

"A parting before doubt and jealousy had entered her mind would let
the image of her sacrificing lover live within her soul as a tender
and lasting memory; he always would be her ideal," and the accent old
Sanders placed on _always_ left no doubt of his belief.

"Why should doubt and jealousy enter her life?" said the violinist,
falling into the personal character of the discussion despite himself.

"My dear sir, from what I observed to-night, she loves you. You are a
dangerous man for a jealous woman to love. You