he seen that mirror before?

"What shall it be?" she asked, and he forgot the mirror.

"The song you sang under my window."

"But that is for the male voice!"

"You sang it very well, nevertheless. I have a good memory, too." He
leaned forward, his arms crossed on his knees. Was there ever, in all
the world, such an Arabian night?

She sang, but without that buoyant note of the first night. One after
another he called out the popular airs of the old light operas. She had
them all on her tongue's end.

"Light opera appeals to you?" She had followed in the mirror his
slightest move. Was she disappointed?

Where had he seen that copy of Botticelli before? If only there was a
little more light.

"Pardon me," he said. "You asked--?"

She repeated her question, wondering what had drawn his attention.

"I like my grand opera after dinner. After dinner I shall want Verdi,
Berlioz, Gounod."

"But after dinner I may not care to sing." She spoke in German.

He was not expecting this tongue; besides, his German had never been a
finished product. For all that, he made a passable reply.

"You speak as many languages as a Swiss hotel-concierge."

"I wish I did. My mother had one idea in regard to my youth: I should
speak four languages and eventually become a great diplomat. As it
stands, I speak indifferent French and German, and am not in the
diplomatic service. My mother had one of the loveliest voices. It was a
joy to hear her speak, now Italian, now German, now French. She
understood that in these days one does not travel far with Greek and
Latin, though they come in handy when you strike old inscriptions. We
were great comrades. It was rare fun to go with her on an
antique-hunting expedition. They never fooled her nor got the better of
her in a bargain."

She liked the way he spoke of his mother.

"But you," he said; "you are not Italian."

She smiled.

"You are neither French, German nor English."

She still smiled, but to the smile she added a gentle shrug.

"You are American--like myself!" he hazarded.

Her fingers stirred over the keys again, and Grieg's _Papillon_
fluttered softly from flower to flower.

CHAPTER VI

INTO THE FOG AGAIN

He sat there, waiting and listening. From the light and airy butterfly,
the music changed to Farwell's _Norwegian Song_. Hillard saw the lonely
sea, the lonely twilight, the lonely gull wheeling seaward, the lonely
little cottage on the cliffs, and the