strong cigarettes of
yours. I love the smell. Perhaps I'll try and tell you. But--mind,
Jack--you're not to look at me. And you're not to say a single word till
I've done. Just--smoke, that's all."

She settled herself on the low fender-cushion with her face turned from
him to the fire. Lord Babbacombe sat down as she desired, and took out
and lighted a cigarette.

As the scent of it reached her she began to speak in the high, American
voice he had come to love. There was nothing piercing about it; it was a
clear, sweet treble.

"It happened when I was travelling under Aunt Bathurst's wing. You know,
it was with her and my cousin Archie that I first did Europe. My! It was
a long time ago! I've been round the world four times since then--twice
with poor dear Daddy, once with Mrs. Archie, after he died, and the last
time--alone. And I didn't like that last time a mite. I was like the man
in _The Pilgrim's Progress_--I took my hump wherever I went. Still, I
had to do something. You were big-game shooting. I'd have gone with you
if you'd have had me unmarried. But I knew you wouldn't, so I just had
to mess around by myself. Oh, but I was tired--I was tired! But I kept
saying to myself it was the last journey before--Jack, if you don't
smoke your cigarette will go out. Where was I? I'm afraid I'm boring
you. You can go to sleep if you like. Well, it was on the voyage back.
There was a man on board that every one said was a private detective. It
was at the time of the great Nat Verney swindles. You remember, of
course? And somehow we all jumped to the conclusion that he was tracking
him. I remember seeing him when we first went on board at Liverpool. He
was standing by the gangway watching the crowd with the bluest eyes on
earth, and I took him for a detective right away. But--for all
that--there was something about him--something I kind of liked, that
made me feel I wanted to know him. He was avoiding everybody, but I made
him talk to me. You know my way."

She paused for a moment, and leaning forward, gazed into the heart of
the fire with wide, intent eyes.

The man in the chair behind her smoked on silently with a drawn face.

"He was very horrid to me," she went on, her voice soft and slow as
though she were describing something seen in a vision, "the only man who
ever was. But I--do you know, I liked him all the more for that? I
didn't flirt with him. I didn't try. He wasn't the sort one could flirt
with. He was