serve
me, either.

"If I loved you," said I, "I might change color when you spoke.
Therefore my malady must arise from other causes--say from Sir Peter's
wine, for instance."

"I knew a man who fell in love with me," she said. "You may do so yet."

"Do you think it likely?" I asked, scarcely knowing how to meet this
cool attack.

"I think it possible--don't you?" she asked.

I considered, or made pretense to. My heart had begun to beat too fast;
and as for her, I could no more fathom her than the sea, yet her babble
was shallow enough to strand wiser men than I upon its sparkling
shoals.

"I do like men," she said thoughtfully, "but not all men, as I said I
did. Now at supper I looked about me and I found only you attractive,
save Sir Peter, and he counts nothing in a game of hearts."

"When you come to mingle with New York society you will, no doubt, find
others far more attractive," I said stupidly.

"No doubt. Still, in the interim"--she looked straight at me from under
her delicate level brows--"in the meanwhile, will you not amuse me?"

"How, madam?"

"I shall not tell you if you call me 'madam.'"

"Will the Hon. Elsin Grey inform me how I may amuse her ladyship?"

"Nor that, either."

I hesitated, then leaned nearer: "How may I amuse you, Elsin?"

"Why, by courting me, silly!" she said, laughing, and spreading her
silken fan. "How else is a woman amused?"

Her smooth hand lay across the velvet arm of the sofa; I took it and
raised it to my lips, and she smiled approval, then drew a languid
little sigh, fanned, and vowed I was the boldest man she had ever
known.

I told her how exquisite her beauty was, I protested at her coldness, I
dedicated myself to her service, vowing eternal constancy; and
presently my elaborate expressions rang truer and grew more simple, and
she withdrew her hand with a laugh, looking at me out of those
beautiful eyes which now were touched with curiosity.

"For a jester, Carus, you are too earnest," she said.

"Does pretense frighten you?"

She regarded me, silent, smiling, her fan at her lips.

"You are playing with fire," she said.

"Tell me, heart of flint, am I the steel to strike a spark from?" I
asked, laughing.

"I do not know yet of what metal you are made, Carus," she said
thoughtfully, yet with that dim smile hovering ever upon her lips.

She dropped her fan and held up one finger. "Listen; let me read you.
Here is my measure of such a man as you: