-oh, because you are too different. Do you know--and this is as
secret as the grave--if I thought Laura really cared for you it would
drive me to despair. But she won't--she couldn't--you aren't half--you
aren't one hundredth part good enough, you know."

In spite of his smile she saw that there was a tinge of annoyance in the
look he fixed upon her. "By Jove, I thought you rather liked me!" he
exclaimed.

"I do--I love you--I always have." She stretched out her hand until the
tips of her fingers rested upon his arm. "You are quite and entirely
good enough for me, my dear, but I'm not Laura, and strange as it may
seem I honestly care a little more for her than for myself. So if you
are really obliged to fall in love again, suppose you let it be with
me?"

"With you?" He met her charming eyes with his ironic smile. "Oh, I
couldn't--I was brought up on your kind, and perfect as you are, you
would only give me the tiresome, familiar society affair. There isn't
any mystery about you. I know your secret."

"Well, at least you didn't learn it from Madame Alta," she retorted.

"From Madame Alta! Pshaw! she was never anything but a vocal
instrument."

"Do you remember the way she sang this?" asked Gerty; and springing to
her feet she fell into an exaggerated mimicry of the prima donna's pose,
while she trilled out a languishing passage from "Faust." "I always
laughed when she got to that scene," she added, coming back to the
couch, "because when she grew sentimental she reminded me of a love-sick
sheep."

"Then why do you resurrect her ghost?" he demanded. "So far as I am
concerned she might have lived in the last century."

"And yet how mad you used to be about her."

"'Mad'--that's just the word. I was." He drew out his watch, glanced at
it, and rose to his feet with an ejaculation of dismay, "Why, you've
actually made me forget that we aren't living in eternity," he said.
"I'll be awfully late for dinner and it's every bit your fault."

"But think of me," gasped Gerty, already moving in the direction of her
bedroom, "I dine at Ninety-first Street, and I must get into a gown that
laces in the back." She darted out with a bird-like flutter; and running
quickly down the staircase, he hurried from the house and into a passing
cab. During the short drive to his rooms his thoughts were exclusively
engrossed with the necessity of making a rapid change and framing a
suitable apology for his hostess. The annoyance of the