oward him, then fled away, so full of strange, dark,
desirous things was the look she encountered. Abruptly he rose--he
was coming toward her, and she struggled suddenly to her feet,
battling against the cold terror which held her dumb and unready.
She flung one arm out before her and found it grasped by hands that
were hot and burning. The touch shot her with a fierce rage that
cleared her brain and unlocked her lips.

"Is that--the conquest of the spirit?" she gasped, and for an
instant the white-hot scorn in her eyes, flashing into his, hid any
hint of the fear in her.

Involuntarily his grasp relaxed, and violently she wrenched her arm
away and stood facing him, a little white-clad image of war, her
eyes blazing, her breast heaving, a defiant child in her intrepidity
who gave him back look for look.

In his eyes there glowed and battled a conflict of desires. For one
moment they seemed flaming at her from the dark, like some wild
creature ready to spring; the next moment they were human,
recognizable. She read there grudging admiration, arrested ardor,
irresolution, dubiety, and secret calculation.

Then he put both hands behind him and bowed with ceremony.

"The spirit," he remarked dryly, "is worth the conquest."

She said proudly, "You would not like your English friends to know
how you treat a guest!"

At that she saw his lip curl in irony--at the mention of the
English, perhaps, or in disdain at the appearance of fearing a
threat, however powerful that threat might be. He answered with
calmness, "It is not the English I am considering.... Nor have I
treated my guest so ill, _chere petite mademoiselle_.... If for the
moment I mistook my cue--that look within your face--I ask grace for
my stupidity."

Suddenly she was frightened. He did not look like a man who wholly
surrenders his desires. His eyes seemed to say to her, "Wait--the
last word has not been spoken!" She felt her knees trembling.

With an effort she got out, "It is granted--but never again--must
you misunderstand. An American girl----"

She stopped. There was a lump in her throat. Across a bright,
familiar veranda she could hear a clear, sharp voice answer,
"American goose!" She saw a lean tanned face burn red with anger. A
wave of loneliness went through her. The irony of it was pitiless.
How right Robert Falconer had been!

He was staring down at the table beside him, frowning, considering.
She saw with peculiar distinctness how the