ay when he arrives to find me vanished! It is, perhaps, well for
us that we shall be at sea!"

Her quick laughter pealed; she turned with a careless gesture of
salute, friendly and contemptuous; and her white bernous faded away in
the moonlit fog.

And Ferez Bey stood staring after her out of his near-set, beady eyes,
loving her, desiring her, fearing her, unrepentant that he had sold
her, wondering whether the day might dawn when he would find it best
to kill her for the prosperity and peace of mind of the only living
being in whose service he never tired--himself.

I

A SHADOW DANCE

Three years later Destiny still wore a rosy face for Nihla Quellen.
And, for a young American of whom Nihla had never even heard, Destiny
still remained the laughing jade he had always known, beckoning him
ever nearer, with the coquettish promise of her curved forefinger, to
fame and wealth immeasurable.

* * * * *

Seated now on a moonlit lawn, before his sketching easel, this
optimistic young man, whose name was Barres, continued to observe the
movements of a dim white figure which had emerged from the villa
opposite, and was now stealing toward him across the dew-drenched
grass.

When the white figure was quite near it halted, holding up filmy
skirts and peering intently at him.

"May one look?" she inquired, in that now celebrated voice of hers,
through which ever seemed to sound a hint of hidden laughter.

"Certainly," he replied, rising from his folding camp stool.

She tiptoed over the wet grass, came up beside him, gazed down at the
canvas on his easel.

"Can you really see to paint? Is the moon bright enough?" she asked.

"Yes. But one has to be familiar with one's palette."

"Oh. You seem to know yours quite perfectly, monsieur."

"Enough to mix colours properly."

"I didn't realise that painters ever actually painted pictures by
moonlight."

"It's a sort of hit or miss business, but the notes made are
interesting," he explained.

"What do you do with these moonlight studies?"

"Use them as notes in the studio when a moonlight picture is to be
painted."

"Are you then a realist, monsieur?"

"As much of a realist as anybody with imagination can be," he replied,
smiling at her charming, moonlit face.

"I understand. Realism is merely honesty plus the imagination of the
individual."

"A delightful _mot_, madam----"

"Mademoiselle," she corrected him demurely.